I went to college in the 90s in the Midwest. One of the things that bound my friends and I was a love of theatre, of performance and creativity, and how that helped a queer group of kids through high school long enough to make it to college. RENT was a shared experience we routinely revisited through the soundtrack, bursts of song in the dorm lounge, and loving (both platonic and intimate) in our dorm rooms. We saw ourselves in those characters and we embraced who we were, in part, because of the courage they gave us. Roger, Collins, Mimi, and (most important to me) Angel were, also, reminders of the danger our community was in.

It was thoughts of Collins and Angel that sat with one friend and I as we faced the prospect of him having contracted HIV. The knowledge of how the virus could change our lives was often buried beneath our young denials and fumbling attempts to maintain the illusion of invulnerability, but it was always crouched in the shadows, except for moments like these when it pounced. We were moved by Collins and Angel, we were inspired by them, and we mimicked their lines and their love, but we also feared becoming them. We were among the children lucky enough not to.

Angel would sit with me again, years later, when an ex-called me to admit he had an STD while we were together. Making amends for past wrongs was part of his 12 steps. Telling me which STD he had was not one of those steps. Angel came to me as I absorbed this revelation. Was Angel’s end destined to be my end? Did I have the courage, the audacity, to live as loud and fully as Angel in the face of an AIDS diagnosis? I didn’t have the answers for that. I didn’t have the courage to find out, either. At least, not on my own.

One of the biggest things I took from RENT was the importance of community and finding strength in each other. It was only with the support of friends that I faced the terror of being tested. I was fortunate. Whatever my ex-boyfriend had, he did not pass it on to me. I will never know if I would have had the strength Angel carried, but I carry Angel with me still and the question “Are you okay, honey?” has become the one I ask most when talking to my friends.

Fox’s broadcast of RENT has brought these memories back into my present. Good memories. Painful memories. Hopeful memories. And it reminds me of the fight we still need to fight.

The AIDS epidemic is ongoing. 36.8 million people worldwide are living with AIDS and 2 million of them were newly infected within the last year. Of them, gay men and trans women continue to be the population most impacted and the least able to access care.

The villain in this story isn’t a young landlord who feigns friendship as he kicks you out. It’s Gilead Sciences, the company advertising during the Fox broadcast. Gilead holds the patent on a preventive pill and, because they don’t allow generics to be made, they set the price for that pill. They’ve set it at $1,600 per month. Putting it out of reach of the uninsured population who most needs the medication.

If you can, please donate to or volunteer at groups like ACT UP (a diverse non-partisan group committed to take action to end the AIDS crisis and support the most vulnerable populations), Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS, or AIDS United.

#HIV #AIDS #AIDSAwareness #RENT #LGBTQ

My maternal Grandma was 94 years old when she reached the place the path meets the clearing. She grew up during the Great Depression, buried two husbands, raised three daughters, taught Sunday School, sang in the choir, and preached. She got her college degree when she was 80. Until her last year, she lived independently in an apartment complex for senior citizens. Aside from being my Grandmother, she was, also, my Godmother. When I was little I thought she was my fairy godmother, as a teenager I could talk to her about stuff that was on my mind, and as an adult I have profound admiration for her. I have her photo on my desk and I still talk to her.

The last conversation I had with her was special. Our conversations always started with her health and the weather. From there, she would tell me the latest gossip concerning the other ladies, who was mad at whom, who won the BINGO games, or who she wasn’t talking with and why. She got a little muddled sometimes and repeated herself; I think, when you’re a nonagenarian, you’ve earned the right to repeat yourself as often as you like. She liked to talk about growing up on a farm in the nineteen-twenties, stories from when my Mum was a girl, or about things we did when I was little. During our final conversation, we talked about Grandma’s Rag Bag.

I have warm, comforting memories of Grandma’s Rag Bag that I love to wrap myself up in like a patchwork quilt on a cold, damp day. It wasn’t an actual bag; rather, it was a big, worn pillowcase and it was stuffed fuller than Santa’s sack at sunset on Christmas Eve. Inside were old towels and shirts, pantyhose and stockings, hats and purses, and other sundries containing such magic as only a fairy godmother can provide. She would pull out this bag of wonders and let me play in her bedroom with the door closed so nobody would disturb me. This special time allowed me to be anything I wanted, and needed, to be. A fancy lady. A Cinderella princess. A princess-knight who slew her own dragons and rescued herself. I could be me and that was important because, as a young trans girl, I couldn’t be me anywhere else.

My Da hated that bag and I knew that. I knew there was something unspeakable about it, but I didn’t care because it was Grandma’s magic and magic is always secret. As an adult reflecting back, I have often wondered why my Da never stopped me from playing with those feminine cast-offs and hand-me-downs. He was uncomfortable with and angry about it, though I didn’t understand why, nor, to be honest, did he.

In our last chat, Grandma told me a part of this story that I had never heard; a part she had kept secret, perhaps, to protect my safe place or, perhaps, because grandma hearts are mysterious and know when the time for telling is. My Da had come to pick me up and opened the bedroom door. I, hosiery pulled up over my denim jeans, too-large floppy hat drooping over my eyes, and purse hanging from my arm, was too enraptured in being myself to notice. But, he noticed and was furious; as my Grandma said, fit to hit the ceiling. He turned and said to her, “No boy of mine is going to walk around dressed like a girl.” My Da is a near six foot, broad-shouldered, farm–raised man. He is imposing and my Grandma, four foot nine and plump, was not, but she stood her ground and told him to “sit down and shut up.” She told him this was my time at her house and she didn’t see anything wrong with what I was doing. He told her, “But, you have to make him mind.” My short, feisty Grandma told him I was minding, because she had told me to play and that was what I was doing. And nothing more was said on the matter.

Grandma told me this over the phone and could not see the tears welling in my eyes. I told her I love her. She said, “You don’t even know how much I love you. You are my Granddaughter and my Goddaughter and you are so precious to me.”

She was my fairy godmother and her love was transformative.

#LGBTQ

#Queer

#Transgender

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