A House On Fire: Unpacking The Trauma Of A Plague On The 40th Anniversary of HIV

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Dr. Maurice Franklin (An image from an early Atlanta Pride. Image courtesy of subject.)

1981 was a magical year for me. Alexander Godunov and Judith Jamison performed “Spell” as guest performers at Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater’s opening night gala, DREAMGIRLS was on Broadway, Diana Ross had a hit called I’m Coming Out, and Tom Browne had an R&B hit called “Thigh High” (Grip Your Hips and Move). I cheered as a University of Oklahoma Cheerleader in the Sun Bowl as Oklahoma beat the University of Houston 40–14. Life was good. I still believed in a world with endless possibilities. However, by the summer of 1981, I’d heard about an illness that was primarily affecting white and Black gay men in L.A., New York City, and San Francisco. The sickness, then called GRID (Gay-Related Immune Deficiency Syndrome) was infecting and killing gay people. Many Black gay friends believed we had no worries if we did not sleep with white men. They were wrong.

In 1981, Ronald Reagan was the U.S. President. Reagan did not utter the words AIDS until four years into his administration. Poor leadership and a deadly epidemic are a catastrophic combination. Imagine HIV/AIDS in a Trump Administration. Reagan’s silence and neglect killed many Americans. By 1985, Rock Hudson had died, Elizabeth Taylor had created AMFAR, and become an international AIDS ambassador. The lifespan of a person diagnosed with HTLV III, now referred to as HIV-1, during that period was 18 months. HIV changed the trajectory of my life. I had just begun to live. My house and everything around me were on fire.

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National Black Gay & Lesbian Leadership Forum rally before The Million Man March that was lead by Dr. Franklin and Keith Boykin (Image courtesy of subject.)

“My friend Richard died surrounded by loving friends, a dedicated mother, a sister, and cousins. Tony died feeling the anger and rage of his mother. I still live with survivor’s guilt over their deaths. ”

— Dr. Maurice Franklin

By 1985, I left Oklahoma and joined the U.S. Navy. I believed I was insulated from HIV/AIDS for a period of my life and had escaped the burning building. In the Navy, I served as a medic and a hospital administrator. I worked in a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). During that period, I was the “go-to” medic if an IV or PIC line failed. Through osmosis, I had inherited my mom and grandfathers’ skillful medical hands. In the Spring of 1985, the commanding officer of the hospital moved me to an administrative role. That transfer also coincided with the Department of the Military’s decision to move any service member testing positive for HIV within a 300-mile radius of a military hospital or U.S. duty station. Portsmouth Naval Hospital was one site selected to receive Navy and Marine service members. Portsmouth Naval Hospital received hundreds of sailors and marines from 1985 to 1987. AZT provided little treatment. It was toxic, darkened the skin, and made wooly African diaspora hair baby soft. Taking it may have been helpful to some, but it also made your appearance changes noticeable.

Those deaths and early losses motivated me to create my very own self-care cocoon. I studied nutrition, eastern medicine, and read self-help books. In the absence of therapeutics and a cure, I tried to pour into every service member’s information to save their lives. From 1987 to 1995, I met and befriended many sailors and marines who died from HIV complications. To date, all that I met at Portsmouth Naval Hospital have all died from AIDS-related complications. I watched HIV/AIDS suck the joy out of their once beautiful bodies and spirits. I watched families disown their flesh and blood. I watched them disappear from my social circle. Shame, self-isolation, and disappointment controlled their lives. I heard their last words. I held their hands as they died. I spoke at memorial services. Attending funeral services felt like I too was erased and disowned. Coping with the trauma of loss was difficult. How could families turn their back on their flesh and blood? Their families said, ‘don’t come home,’ the church said, ‘don’t come here,’ and their weak-ass friends said, ‘I don't know you.’ I am still haunted by each one of those deaths. I remember sharing their anxieties and feeling their pain as they slowly faded away. I still feel guilty about their deaths. The pain of losing my friends was a horrible burden. How could anybody still ascending life, die so soon?

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Back Row: Founding Board Members of the National Black Justice Coalition Front Row: Rev. Timothy McDonald III, Rev. Al Sharpton and Rev. Dr. Kenneth L. Samuel (Image courtesy of subject.)

Surviving A Plague

My brothers for life, Tony, Marv, Richard, Leroy, and I laughed and cried as one. When Marv and LeRoy died, they were abandoned by their mothers. They left me to assist with the planning of the funeral and memorial services. With Marv, I remember putting a call out to members of my fraternity, Phi Beta Sigma, Incorporated, for help with an Omega service. I never felt so proud having brothers from Washington D.C. to Houston show up in Greenville, S.C., to do what brothers do. We buried our dead. I also remember the hatefulness and experience of mothers turning their back on their sons. Just awful. How could a mother turn her back on her child? 

My friend Richard died surrounded by loving friends, a dedicated mother, a sister, and cousins. Tony died feeling the anger and rage of his mother. I still live with survivor’s guilt over their deaths. This dark period forced me to examine my personal support network and stimulate my spiritual journey towards self-healing and self-love. I had internalized their pain, shame, and isolation. I needed to discover my personal self-care. I am also haunted by the many Black gay men who abandoned friendships and talked badly of those living with HIV. The latter is still occurring 40 years later.

I poured my life into the idea of saving my brother’s lives. Their pain and survival became my raison d'être. That passion connected me to the center of the Black Gay Liberation moments and movements of the 1980s and 1990s, and on into the 21st century. I attended the first international HIV/AIDS Conference in Montreal, Canada, served on the board of Black Gay and Lesbian Leadership Forum, founded Black Gay Support Group in Atlanta, Georgia, (Second Sunday), Co-Founder of the Black AIDS Institute, and the National Black Justice Coalition. Each effort was in memory of my friends and a step toward liberation. Some observations: During the eighties, Black Gay advocacy occurred between the east and west coast. Fear, stigma, and religious dogma framed the prevention narrative. People who were living with HIV were considered dirty, over-sexed, and of low morals. This narrative harmed our prevention efforts and made the job of prevention and advocacy more difficult. 

Many Black gay men who committed to early HIV/AIDS leaders carried a double stigma. They were outcast by the Black community, and the Black gay community was skeptical of their politics and motivations. In other words, they carried the burden of being too gay or too white adjacent. During the late 1980s and early 1990s, we witnessed a record number of HIV/AIDS public sector agencies founded and funded by the CDC. We also witnessed many of these same agencies fail because of malfeasance or lack of community. 

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Left to Right: Dr. Maurice Franklin, Phil Wilson, Keith Boykin (Image courtesy of subject)

“Many Black gay men who committed to early HIV/AIDS leaders carried a double stigma. They were outcast by the Black community, and the Black gay community was skeptical of their politics and motivations. ”

— Dr. Maurice Franklin

After 40 years of an HIV epidemic and HIV fatigue, the landscape has not changed much. Black gay men are still overrepresented in CDC Epidemic Surveillance Data. Organizations are still facing the challenges of stigma, bias, and other social inequities. During the 80s and 90s, we represented around 35% of new infections. According to a CDC brief, “published research does not provide definitive answers about why new HIV infections among young, Black/African American gay, bisexual, and other men who have sex with men (MSM) have increased.” This statement is problematic. They are supposed to fund “effective” HIV prevention strategies. The CDC still does not know after 40-years why infections among Black gay men have increased? This lack of knowledge is a limitation of social science. I also believe it’s a governmental and a community failure.

Dr. Joseph E. Lowery, Co-Founder and President Emeritus of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, often said, When America gets a cold, Black America gets pneumonia. What has changed in 40 years? Not much. Structural inequities are still plaguing Black and brown communities. Many organizations continue to suffer from a lack of social and political capital. COVID-19 has effectively and efficiently demonstrated what many who live in my community already knew. There are still two Americas, both separate and equal, one for the rich and one for the poor. More succinctly, it might be said, two Americas: the served and the underserved; Or the served, and the ignored.

I am happy HIV/AIDS is no longer listed as a top ten disease by the World Health Organization (WHO). Pharmaceutical therapeutics continue to extend the lives of those who are living with HIV, which is now considered a chronic and treatable disease. However, the structural and human inequities have not improved the outlook for Black gay men. We are still overrepresented in the contemporary HIV/AIDS health statistics and underrepresented at the local and national leadership levels. I see glimmers of individual and institutional successes, and that gives me hope for the complete eradication of HIV/AIDS.