#AIDS Quilt

[magicfemme]

"let love replace fear through you."

AIDS QUILT SERIES  |  VIEW THE QUILT

[victusinveritas]

The Advocate, 1988. From cartoonist Gerard Donelan.

[halfd3af]

I’d never really gotten a chance to look before, but I had the urge to look at the AIDS quilt after remembering Duane Puryear, and I was just browsing around when one caught my eye in particular on block #2336.

I’m a sucker for the night sky, and upon further inspection…

Greg Kyper would have been 70 years old today, February 2nd 2024, if not for AIDS, and ohhhhh I’m gonna cry. I can't believe the chances of me stumbling upon his name today of all days. I'm going to try finding out more information about him and his life if possible.

I never met you Greg, but I love your quilt design. It's beautiful.

[queerism1969]

[copper-dragon-in-disguise]

Ik you like talking about this and I’m actually like rly interested so what’s the aids quilt and triangle shirtwaist factory fire?

(It’s in your bio and as you probably know I hate looking stuff up and prefer talking to people-you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to)

*jumps up like the human equivalent of !!! and sprints to the computer to answer this properly with sources and shit* !!!!!!!!!!!

YOU WANT TO KNOW ABOUT THE TRIANGLE SHIRTWAIST FACTORY FIRE AND THE AIDS QUILT?????????? !!!!!!!!!!!! YOU ARE GOING TO REGRET THIS SO MUCH ASTER I'M SO EXICTED I'M NOT GOING TO SHUT UP FOR LIKE AN HOUR THIS IS AMAZING

(you have unlocked the Special Interests and now i won't shut up ever. :DDDDDDDDDD)

....well. I wasn't going to put a cut and then it got really, really long, so there's a cut about halfway through for the sake of peoples dashboards.

first up:

The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire

(tw/cw: intentional endangerment of workers, death, suicide (unplanned/unintentional), graphic depiction of death)

short version: the triangle shirtwaist factory fire was one of the deadliest industrial disasters in US History and, I believe, the deadliest industrial disaster in the history of New York City. It was a key point in labor rights & union movements, and 146 people died, almost all recently immigrated women and girls between the ages of 14-23.

long version: at ~4:40 pm on march 25th, 1911, a fire broke out in a scrap bin under a cutting table in the triangle shirtwaist factory, which occupied the 8th, 9th, and 10th floors of the Asch building in new york city (manhatten, greenwich village specifically).

the factory produced shirtwaists, a popular kind of women's blouse. (it was a sweatshop, which is relevant for future reasons). It was owned by Max Blanck and Issac Harris, who had previously had four (? possibly 3) fires at other factories, and been investigated for them (it was suspected that one or more of those said fires were the result of arson by the owners). the workers were, for the vast majority, recently immigrated jewish & italian women and girls, from age 14 and up, but most were between 14 and 25. The oldest victim was 43. (of the victims whose ages are known). They earned $7-12 a week (approx. $190-326USD in 2020 dollars), or approx. $3.65-6.29 per hour in today's money. at the time of the fire, there were approx. 600 workers in the building.

the asch building was 10 floors in total, and the top 3 were occupied by the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. The doors leading to the staircases were locked, to prevent workers leaving early or taking breaks. There were supposed to be 3 staircases, but there was only two; the city had allowed the owners to build a single fire escape in lieu of the third staircase. this fire escape may have been broken before the fire, and it was certainly broken afterwards. one of the staircases managed to be unlocked, but it became impassible either up or down within 3 minutes of the fire's start.

when the fire flared up, the first alarm was sounded by a passerby outside, who saw smoke coming out the windows at 4:45 pm.

the fire department arrived shortly after, but their ladders could only reach the 7th floor (the fire start on the 8th). some workers excaped via the roof (several years ago I heard a story about a guy who was teaching in the building next door and him and his students saw the people on the roof and were able to help them get over to the building the professor was in and not ontop of the burning one, but I can't find it again to validate it so take that with a grain of salt), and some got into the elevators while they were still working. the elevator operators were able to make 3 trips before the elevators stopped working from the excessive heat (the steel beams holding them bent and made it impossible to attempt).

inside the building, people on the 8th floor were able to warn people on the 10th floor by means of a telephone, but with the staircases locked there was no way to warn those on the 9th floor, and a survivor said (paraphrasing): ''the first warning of the fire arrived at the 9th floor at the same time the fire did''.

146 people died. 123 women and girls, the vast majority between the ages of 14-23, and 23 men and boys (I cannot find a clear age for them). 61 people died from jumping to their death or falling to their death out of the windows of the building. the fire department had nets meant to catch people, but velocity is velocity and the nets did nothing. people jumped out the windows hoping that the nets would catch them or they might survive, or that at least that had a better chance of survival than remaining inside the fire. 20 of these were on the fire escape & attempting to use it when it collapsed, dropping them 100ft to the sidewalk and killing them.

36 people died in the elevator shaft, after it started to break. (they attempted to jump/slide down the cables, and it did not work).

49 people burned to death or suffocated in the smoke.

the entire fire took 18 minutes.

The bodies of the victims were taken to Charities Pier (aka Misery Lane) to be identified. All but 6 were, and those 6 were buried together in the Cementer of the Evergreens in brooklyn (they were later identified by a historian named michael hirsch in 2011, after 4 years of research). they are now all buried together there, underneath a monument to the tragedy.

it caused a surge in the efforts of the International Ladies' Garment Workers Union, and eventually resulted in the passing of ~38 new york state labor laws.

The AIDs Quilt

(tw/cw: regan (referenced), death (nowhere near as bad as above))

The AIDs quilt is a memorial quilt commemorating those who have died of AIDs (at any point, not just during the AIDs crisis (fuck you ronald regan)), with panels sewn by family members and friends. It was begun in 1987 in San Fransisco by Cleve Jones. It is considered the largest community folk arts project in the world, and consists of nearly 50,000 panels honoring approx. 110,000 people.

Each panel is 6' by 3' (about the size of a standard grave), and four of them are sewn together to make large blocks that are then sewn/tied together. sometimes it goes on display, the most recent time in june 2022.

there is an interactive online version of the quilt, which you can find here.

here it is zoomed out as far as I could get

here are some of the larger blocks of the quilt

and here are some individual panels.

that's mostly all I have to say about it, but its incredible, and my favorite art project of all time.

(i don't have the spoons to add image descriptions to the photos, I am sorry, I will try to do it later when I remember)

[bassproshopspyramid]

bestie can you explain why ray cohn's panel said that please i'm so curious

of course! warnings for 1950s–1980s period typical homophobia, and also: you’ll fucking hate this guy.

roy cohn was an american lawyer, and he first became famous for two things: the rosenberg trial, and mccarthyism (also known as the second red scare).

julius and ethel rosenberg were an american couple who were both executed for espionage after providing military secrets to the ussr. i’m not super familiar with the case, but as i understand it: the consensus today is that julius was guilty, ethel probably wasn’t, but the trial was so full of garbage that, legally, they never should have been executed. "guilty but framed" is a phrase i’ve heard about it a couple times.

roy cohn was super proud about the rosenberg trial, claiming that he was responsible for getting the judge and the assistant u.s. attorney appointed to the case, and that the judge gave them the death penalty based on cohn’s personal recommendation.

because of cohn’s prominence in the rosenberg trial, senator joseph mccarthy chose cohn as his chief counsel. cohn worked for the "permanent subcommittee on investigations" (which mccarthy was the head of), and was known for his "aggressive" questioning of suspected communists in american government — basically, they interrogated hundreds of people working for the military and other parts of the government, and drummed up as much anti-communist sentiment as america as possible (that sentiment is why everyone in america is so Like That about unions).

one of the tactics that mccarthy and cohn used was weaponizing americans’ homophobia. they said that communists were convincing closeted gay people in the government to share top secret information in return for not being outed. this is the start of the lavender scare. homosexuals, they said, were a danger to national security. this eventually made then-president eisenhower sign an executive order to ban homosexuals from working for the federal government. we’ll come back to this.

eventually, mccarthy’s claiming that the department of defence was full of communists and also threatening the army when they drafted one of his consultants, g. david schine, led to senate hearings in 1954 that ruined mccarthy’s public image, and cohn was asked to resign.

he went into private practice in new york, where his clients included a bunch of mafia dudes and the star of home alone 2: donald trump. (other famous assholes that were cohn’s clients/friends include alan dershowitz, rupert murdoch, and roger stone. none of those dudes are dead but they all really should be.) he also befriended archbishop francis spellman of new york city, and represented the archdiocese of new york in court. during the debate over the passage of new york’s first gay rights bill, he shared the archdiocese’s opinion and said "homosexual teachers are a grave threat to our children"

cohn was known for being fiercely loyal, and also being accused of a ton of crimes himself (his section on his wikipedia page lists theft, obstruction, extortion, tax evasion, bribery, blackmail, fraud, perjury, and witness tampering. none of which are particularly cool crimes, because he’s a coward.)

he eventually wormed his ass back into politics, becoming an informal advisor to presidents tricky dick nixon and ronald reagan, two guys who are currently burning in hell, competing to figure out which of them is more racist. he was a very good friend to first lady nancy reagan and former cia director william casey, as well as a ton of lobbyists and some morally corrupt "journalists", but he said his very best friend was donald trump. cohn got charged with a few crimes on account of him committing a metric fuckton of crimes, and he ended up being disbarred shortly before his death.

(speaking of those crimes that got him disbarred, one of the things that is mentioned a couple times is that cohn entered the hospital room of one of his clients, a dude who was in a coma and dying, and attempted to make himself a beneficiary of the man’s will. to quote wikipedia, "the resulting marks were determined in court to be indecipherable and in no way a valid signature.")

now, the thing i have done my best to not mention in this post? is that roy cohn himself was infamously gay. he denied it until his dying breath, of course, but he was really bad at hiding it. it was one of those things that everybody knew and nobody spoke about.

we know some of the men he dated and slept with — his assistant russell eldridge, who died from aids in 1984, was one of his boyfriends. the chauffeur of that mccarthy consultant that got drafted, g. david schine, said that schine and cohn did the dirty in the back of his limo, which is just really rude to the chauffeur no matter what your sexuality is. this came up during hearings, and cohn said he and schine were not "closer than to the ordinary friend". that archbishop i mentioned, francis spellman, was rumoured to be gay, which was a big controversy in the church at the time. and cohn’s partner for the last two years of his life was a man named peter fraser.

again, cohn’s sexuality was the kind of thing that was known, you just couldn’t say in public. the lawyer for the army in the hearings asked if a photograph "came from a pixie", and then he defined "pixie" as "a close relative of a fairy". ("pixie" was a type of camera, and "fairy" is a somewhat outdated insult for gay men). cohn’s associate roger stone said of him: "roy was not gay. he was a man who liked having sex with men."

in 1984, roy cohn was diagnosed with aids. he kept the condition a secret and received experimental treatment — he was part of clinical trials for azt, the first anti-hiv drug. he died of complications from aids on august 2, 1986, insisting to his dying day that the cause was liver cancer. when he died, the irs (internal revenue service/basically the tax cops) seized nearly everything he owned. one of the things they didn’t take was a pair of diamond cufflinks, which were a gift from donald trump. roger stone said that cohn’s "absolute goal was to die completely broke and owing millions to the irs. he succeeded in that."

michael kruse wrote for politico: "he was preening and combative, look-at-me lavish and loud. it was an act. the truth was he hated what he was—a lawyer who hated lawyers, a jewish person who hated jewish people, and a gay person, fiercely closeted if haphazardly hidden, who hated gay people".

cohn is a character in a couple of tony kushner’s plays — most famously angels in america, where he is "a closeted, power-hungry hypocrite haunted by the ghost of ethel rosenberg as he denies dying of aids.", but he also appears in g. david schine in hell (where, from a brief look at the show’s wikipedia page, i think he might be in drag?). kushner actually said that seeing his description on the aids quilt is what inspired him to look into cohn.

roy cohn:

lawyer and patriot

vs

bully, coward, victim.

[hyggehooligan]

[kaija-rayne-author]

I wrote something hard today. It's long. Please mind the content warnings, this one is heavy.

We Must Remember

ON DECEMBER 30, 2023 BY KAELENRHY/Kaija Rayne

Content Warnings: AIDS epidemic, queer death, queer abuse, child abuse, child neglect, mention of attempted rape, sexual harassment in the form of catcalling and whistling.

My generation of queers, the ones who came of age in the middle of losing most of a generation of our queer siblings… we don’t talk about it.

It’s got to be pretty obvious why we don’t. I can’t think of a queer person who knew they were queer who didn’t lose someone. And we all lost when it comes to some people. Freddie Mercury, for one, the lead singer of Queen. He died a day after announcing his diagnosis in 1991. He was 45 years old.

And there were so many others.

I’ve been aware of the lack of people who lived through it talking about this for a while. But it really brought it home to me when I asked my eldest, who is openly queer, if they knew what the AIDS quilt was. They didn’t. And generally, they’re interested in queer history, so tend to be better informed than a lot of queer youth about our collective history. It helps that I was a history teacher at one time and have always lived and breathed teaching it to anyone willing to learn.

So, here’s a story from a time I hope never to see again, but one which, when I look at the world, I deeply fear is coming back.

The moral panic we see now is like déjà vu for people like me. It was this exact same moral panic that caused medicine, and most of humanity, to completely ignore it as loved ones died. To treat human beings without the care or respect any human being deserves simply by drawing breath.

I grew up in the mountains in a very Christian cult-like atmosphere. It was honestly so close to being an actual cult. There really is such a minuscule difference. But it wasn’t an official cult. Just… very poor people backbiting each other any way they could. Praying like good people on Wednesdays and Sundays, but doing anything they wanted every other day of the week. You’d think with all the mountains around, they’d have anything better to do than gossip. But gossip ran as life’s blood. The internet didn’t yet exist in private homes in that piss hole in a snowbank. There were 3 churches in the town, and 6 bars. For 300 people. The closest store was a good 20-minute drive away, the closest library an hour.

Christ, it’s hard to remember these things. It’s been 33 ish years since this story happened in real life, and I still don’t want to revisit it.

But it’s important.

The memory of this day is ingrained on the inside of my skin. I can almost feel the heavy summer sun.

Sad Summer Day

I’m around 14 years old. I’m barefoot, because my family doesn’t see the point of buying shoes for summer wear. Feet toughen up just fine.

I’m wearing a fourth or fifth-hand t-shirt that is far too see-through and cut-off jean shorts. The tickling of the strings falling against my thighs as I walk is a soothing sensation to me. I’m finished with my chores, the horses are cared for, the dog fed, the abusive younger sibling has stopped screaming and throwing things at me because I wasn’t a suitable big sister and had gone to hide in her room. I’m an embarrassment to my allistic sister. I’m an embarrassment to my mother too. If she ever crawls out of the bottle long enough to give a shit about anyone. My brother lives elsewhere.

I stink. I don’t know that or understand it, but I stink. Getting clean means swimming in a scummy mountain lake most evenings. My mother hasn’t taught me anything about personal hygiene. She smokes like a damned chimney and always smells of booze. There is no way I don’t smell bad. We had bath nights once a week in the winter. The only reason I knew my period was a thing was school health class.

I hang around in the barn a lot. Or in the ancient maple tree in the pasture. Ar Bazara is my beautiful Arabian mare. Her hide is the stunning red of particularly vociferous sunsets. She often patiently lets me lie on her back with a book open on her rump while she grazes. My new goat, Esmerelda, is still adjusting to not being the house goat she was used to being. She’s miserable, mourning her friend and old life. I do what I can, but it doesn’t help very much. Goats grieve as much as humans do, maybe more so.

It’s my job, and escape, to walk to town and get the mail for my father, who works more than not, and can’t get to the post before it closes at 5pm. I have no idea when or if my mother will come stumbling in blind drunk.

I hope to see my friend, who lives at the top of the road to the post office. He hasn’t been feeling well. Wrapped up in a quilt in his mother’s rocking chair on the porch is how I’ve been finding him lately. It’s not very odd, it never gets truly warm in the mountains, so people in heavier clothes or a blanket around their shoulders isn’t uncommon. I think nothing of it.

He’s a relatively recent addition to my life. He moved into his mother’s house last year. Esmeralda had been his, but he’d asked me to take her last week and love her like he did. I really don’t see it coming, or maybe I don’t want to add up the clues.

He’s my only friend there. He looks much older to me, but in reality, is likely in his late twenties. He wears dark tortoise-shell rimmed glasses, always has interesting books to read and ideas to discuss. He’d made it out of the mountains, so has seen so much more of the world I long desperately to experience for myself. His butterscotch blond hair is always a curly mess, and he’s always running his hand through it. I hope I can sit on his porch steps, picking at splinters, while he tells me another story. I’m not supposed to talk to him. No one does in that town. We might catch it, if we do so much as look at him. But I like him, and he treats me like a combination of younger sister and wild animal. He always speaks in such a gentle, calm tone. A tone I never hear at home. Except for the day he gave me Esmerelda. He couldn’t talk through the tears he was trying to hide.

My aunt lives next to him and warns me away every time she sees me. I suppose she likely told my parents, but my parents either aren’t there or are drunk. He’s the only adult in that town other than my grandmother, who even sees me. Much less talks to me like I’m a person. My aunt is happy enough to take his money to make an extra portion of food for him when she cooks for her family every day. She drops it off on the porch and will only take the dishes back if they’re soaking in bleach water when she comes to get them.

I’m tanned dark brown. My mother kicks us out as soon as the snow melts and we’re expected to stay out until dusk. But I’ve got my summer colour, my hair is frizzy from the yearly perms, and sun-bleached. The stench of lemon juice in my hair is still strong, but I know better than to not use it every morning. Having my mother yank the black, spiral hairs out of my head hurts worse. But I hate the smell of lemon juice in my hair.

It’s a short walk to a mountain child. Though if you’d called me a child then it would’ve infuriated me.

I am still a child, a very naïve one. I only know the words gay and lesbian because I’ve read the OED cover to cover. But they’re nascent, formless concepts to me. I’m in the midst of my first crush. A girl in my class with the prettiest brown eyes and lush, curly hair. But, I’ve told no one.

There’s sand on the sides of the beaten-up tarmac of the road. I’m avoiding walking on the road itself because prickers from wild roses and blackberry bushes are vastly preferable to burnt feet.

In shade areas, the mounded sand is cool, a treat to dig my toes into, and there’s a place where rain makes interesting patterns in the sand. I stop there for a short time to look at the swirling patterns in that section. It’s different every time it rains.

The air is heavy, like a wet wool blanket, presaging another evening rainstorm. I cuss because it means I won’t get to swim that night. If I want to rinse off, it’ll be in the cold rain. Hopefully, there won’t be thunder. Loamy earth and the particular faintly metallic scent of slightly damp, lichen-covered stone coat my tongue with a musky taste. The lighter, higher sweet honey note of spreading dogbane makes the walk smell like a slice of heaven. They’re poisonous, of course, but they’re beautiful and one of my favourites. Bunchberry shows little red splashes of colour. Orange hawkweed is blossoming, and so is the milkweed. Soon there will be so many monarch butterfly caterpillars I’ll have to watch where I step. The unnatural stench of old, oft-tarred tarmacadam adds an unwelcome element of human activity to the interesting scents.

The forest sings, murmuring to each other with the slight breeze that’s the only coolness I’ll find unless it rains. And the creaks and groans of the poplar and birch trees provide a symphony. I walk by my grandmother’s house. She’s outside tending to her flowers and checking the bird feeders, so I wave instead of meandering over. My grandmother loves to talk. I’ll stop on the way back. I’m later than usual going to get the mail because of my sister’s abusive outburst.

My hands are stuffed in the far too small front pockets of my shorts. My hand is tightly wrapped around the mail key. I always hold it in my fist, my father says it’s a trust, and I don’t want to blow it. A hopped-up pickup truck with a custom paint job, jacked tires, and glass-packs roars by. The boys inside and riding on the bed cat call me, but I don’t understand it.

By this time in my life, my mother has dived into a bottle and never looked back. She taught me to drink on hanged man’s bridge when I was 11. Vodka. She’d already moved on to vodka from wine by that time. In a lot of ways, I didn’t have a mother anymore, if I’d ever really had one at all in anything other than the physical sense.

It’s 1990. Big hair is falling out of fashion, but I still have the perm that my (at the time) stick-straight hair needs to look like Bon Jovi.

It’s mid-summer, the sun is high in the sky and it won’t get dark until after 9 pm. I won’t have to go inside until 10. The voracious bugs are preferable to listening to another argument. And Gram will let me in and likely feed me. Maybe my brother will be there.

As long as I’m on my father’s or grandmother’s land by dusk, I don’t have to go inside. The crab apples aren’t quite ready, but I pick one to eat, anyway. The bitter, tart juice is still green-flavoured, but it fends off my hunger. I didn’t get to eat my food; I cleaned it up from where my sister had thrown it at the wall and took it out to the hens. I wonder if they like grape jam?

It’s not the first time I’ve been hungry. Hunger is basically my ground state. So much so that I don’t even feel it when I’m hungry.

I pause on hanged man’s bridge. Just for a moment, while I warily scan the church parking lots at the end of the road.

They’d kicked me out when I was 12, but if the minister sees me, I’ll get scolded for breathing. I’m lucky, the lots are deserted and I continue on my way.

There’s no tree cover here, but there is down by the water. The beavers are busily building a dam that the men will burn come fall. It makes me sad because I can see kits with their parents. Beaver has a lot of fat in the fall, so it’s good meat.

I turn left at the end of the road and walk past another not-so-distant relative’s house. I stop for a moment to pet the Percheron workhorses who obligingly hang their heads over the fence so I can pluck handfuls of fresh green grass for them. Their slobber on my hands is green, but it doesn’t register as anything other than something to wipe off on my butt. I love these gentle giants, but the sun is lower in the sky, so I hurry on. I pass two more relatives’ houses. I have a tendency to walk with my gaze on the ground, partially to make sure I don’t step in anything, but partially in hope of finding a new, interesting stone or a bone for my collections.

So, I just… don’t notice. I’m in my own head a lot, working on stories. I started writing 3 years before.

There’s a sharp, rattling sound I associate with caster wheels and I look up.

My friend isn’t on the porch and he can’t tell me any more stories.

The glaring canary yellow of haz-mat suits screams brightly from his faded house. They look like aliens to me. Fierce, terrifying aliens. We don’t have TV, or rather, we don’t have TV reception, so the only reason I know what the suits are is because of my long habit of reading encyclopedias.

One of them is roughly handling his body as the other wraps a second roll of cellophane around him, over and over. They’re great yellow spiders as they finish wrapping my friend in cellophane and put him on the emergency bed from the ambulance. There aren’t any lights on, it’s turned off, and the driver has his booted foot hung out the window while he looks at a playboy. He whistles at me and winks. I hear one of the aliens say the body bags are too expensive to waste on trash. One of them fetches a floral sheet from my friend’s home. They wrap him in that.

I stand there like a rock has landed on my head.

I’m mute. I can’t even make myself move to go yell at them for laughing over my friend’s body and trading slurs for him as if it’s a game. Even if I were brave enough to confront adults. Which, I am not.

They very carefully take the gurney to the ambulance, avoiding all possible touch with the cellophane cocoon. The straps are so tight around my friend’s body that if he could feel them, he would have cried.

The doors make a doubled, muffled thump and the engine of the ambulance starts. It jerks me into movement, but I’m too late. They drive off.

They haven’t closed his kitchen door. So I do it, thinking in that odd way that he’ll be sad when he comes back to find it left open. I never have seen inside his house and I don’t breach his privacy as I close the door.

I have no way to lock it, and he told me he hasn’t any family left.

I step quickly down the top of the searing hot grey metal culvert cover to my aunt’s large backyard. I’m grateful to not run into my cousins. One of whom has already tried to rape me. I can fight him off if I have to, again, but all I need is to escape. I hopscotch across the brook and into the old potato field. I leap like a yearling deer from one mound to the next before I can disappear myself into the forested lands on my dad’s property. I practically live in the forest, and my friend’s habit of treating me like a wild animal isn’t off. I am.

The next thing I clearly remember is hugging Esmerelda’s neck, finally understanding why he’d asked me to take her.

Finally understanding a lot of things a 14-year-old probably shouldn’t have to think about.

I never did get the mail that day. I had to scour the area I’d walked to find the mail key I’d always been so careful not to drop.

Years later, when I was 19, and I’d escaped those fucking mountains, I was in university and doing very well. The only semester I didn’t hit the president’s list was the semester I had mono, and I still made dean’s.

I and a couple of others had recently been thrilled to get the B added to the LG group (lesbian and gay). Bisexual erasure is still prevalent, and it was worse then.

It was meeting night for the club, and one of my friends, one of the first openly gay men I knew while understanding what that meant, had a square of heavy white cloth. He explained it was for a project to remember those we’d lost to AIDS.

I took it home to my dorm room that night and feverishly embroidered a little grey goat wearing a green collar and a shiny gold jingle bell. I’ll never know why he named her Esmerelda.

The last time I visited those mountains, just before our move to Canada… I walked over with my eldest on my hip to look at my friend’s house. The door gaped open like a missing tooth in a smile, but no human scavengers had touched anything. (In those mountains, scavenging is a way of life. It’s a testimonial to their prejudice and discrimination that his home wasn’t pillaged.) The roof had fallen in at some point, always a danger in those mountains, from the weight of snow. The porch step I’d sat on to listen to his stories had fallen off and lay almost rotted through. I stood there looking at his house for probably longer than I remember. They’d closed the post office. The workhorses had been sent to make dog food when the man of the house died and his widow couldn’t care for them. Pound for pound selling them to the butcher was more practical.

My mother sold Ar Bazara just before she left my father. My beautiful mare had died at her new owners from pneumonia not long after I’d graduated high school.

Fall asters bloomed, making shockingly bright splotches of colour around his house. No one would even go close enough to do the neighborly thing and mow the tiny area of land that went with the house. Perception was everything to those people. It wouldn’t do to be perceived as less than a ‘good Christian’. So it spoke volumes that no one had shoveled the roof or mown the lawn. The only way people survive up there is by banding together when needed. My cousins may shoot each other (true fact) but they’ll band together if someone threatens from outside.

My grandmother was gone. Still with us in the flesh, but Alzheimer’s took her from us long before she actually died. She didn’t even remember I had a kid.

My father had cut the ancient maple tree I’d loved so much for firewood years before, sometime when I was in uni.

There weren’t any horses anymore. Esmeralda had gone. She never recovered. The sweet, gentle goat I’d agreed to love turned vicious and mean. I didn’t know how to help her and no one I dared ask could help. My father made me get rid of her when she butted him in the knee.

I kissed my little one’s head when he reached up curiously to touch a tear on my cheek. I doubt he’d ever seen me cry before that. I don’t cry easy. My therapist has me working on relearning how to cry.

That isn’t a problem right now. I can barely see to type. No matter how many years pass, I can’t forget the tearing, sticky sound of the cellophane as they wrapped my friend up. I can’t forget the things they said about him while wearing those stupid haz-mat suits. Which they hadn’t even been wearing correctly. I can’t forget and it’s so bloody hard to remember these things, much less talk or write about them.

Within my lifetime, we’ve seen amazing changes in queer rights. But I, and a lot of older queers, are watching the current political climate of the world and… we could so easily lose everything we’ve gained.

Trans people are always the canaries in the coal mine; always the ones sacrificed first. They will come for the rest of us.

If you’re queer, don’t ever fall into the trap of thinking it’s ancient history. I’m currently 47. This day happened 33 years ago. Don’t fall into the morass of thinking our rights can’t be stripped from us.

They can. And I fear, deeply, that they’ll strip our rights from us again. We could so easily fall down the slippery slope until all of us are disrespected as my friend was. He died alone. And I suppose I should be grateful my aunt noticed right away, that anyone noticed at all. He was a pariah. He’d come home to die after his partner did, only to face massive social exclusion by people he’d grown up with. My aunt only fed him for the cash. Even then, barter was still common. Hard cash wasn’t always easy to get.

I went to the cemetery to try to find his grave and plant some flowers on it. I found where it was supposed to be. Right on the very edge next to the pine forest. Just a slight depression marking what was likely a cheap pine coffin, if they even paid him that much respect. There wasn’t a crematorium anywhere close by. So they’d stuck him as far away from the other dead people as possible. As if the dead could catch it. We didn’t name it. It was the illness variety of the boogeyman. If you don’t name it, it can’t find you.

Starflower had grown to cover the area, so at least I know every spring he has a blanket of small, ethereal white flowers. We lost most of a generation of queers due to medical negligence and reprehensible cruelty from humans to other human beings.

But these stories shouldn’t die with us. Queer youth need to understand what we lived through so they don’t get too complacent. I’ve fought for queer rights since I was 14 years old.

My eldest can just be openly queer. Something I’ve never been able to be except for a few short years in university.

I don’t want to see us lose our rights again.

I don’t want another misunderstood, abused, hurting queer kid to have to watch as their only friend is wrapped in cellophane and denied the honour of a body bag. Denied the honour of a decent grave with a simple headstone.

We’re already losing queer rights. Please don’t be complacent.

Phew, so… I’m a sobbing mess. If my work of words touched you, please consider a tip or becoming a patron. We live in poverty. My husband is recovering from one of the likely three back surgeries he needs for his broken back. We have two autistic/ADHD kids and finding a job is impossible. I’ve been looking since January 15th, 2023. I have $50/$1220 I need for rent for January. We can’t get any government aid because I’m an immigrant.

Far too many queer creatives live in poverty. I’ll do a series of these memories as I can. They’re very emotionally difficult for me to write, but I feel they’re very important things.

http://ko-fi.com/A630KKM

https://www.paypal.me/KaelanRhy

[noonesgaylikegatson]

[magicfemme]

"for all of them — forever."

AIDS QUILT SERIES | VIEW THE QUILT  

[chark80]

Every once in a while I remember Roy Cohn's patch on the AIDS Quilt and it makes me emotional every time.

Roy Cohn was a massive piece of shit: one of the instigators of the Lavendar Scare and arguably responsible for the rise of Trump - I dunno, having this patch as his legacy seems fitting.

[100gayicons]

After contracting HIV, Duane Puryear became an advocate for AIDS awareness and gay rights. Anticipating his end, he created his own panel for the Names Project AIDS Quilt. A simple black and white design - his message is haunting…

"My name is Duane Kearns Puryear. I was born on December 20, 1964. I was diagnosed with AIDS on September 7, 1987 at 4:45 pm. I was 22 years old. Sometimes it makes me very sad. I made this panel myself. If you are reading it, I am dead."

For his whole story, check out this link:

Thanks to Richard Stabbert for alerting me to Duane’s story.

@rstabbert

[catastrfy]

the word “quiltbag”

(just posted this over at Autisticat on facebook, & copying it over here) i just found out the other day that something i thought was common knowledge might not be. (do any of you do that too, where you assUme that everyone else knows things? for me i think a lot of it is that i often seem to be the last person to know!) note: this isn't specifically about the autistic community. but i, like many of the other autistic + otherwise neurodivergent people i know, are also part of the quiltbag community. the word quiltbag is an alternative to the initialisms LGBTQ, LGBTQ+, LGBTQ2S, etc. i first learned "quiltbag" in the 00s, i think. i don't know who coined it, but the person who pointed me to it told me about the symbolism that resonated with her. unlike initialisms, quiltbag is also a pairing of two words that describe a real thing, a quilt bag. also called a piece bag, a quilt bag holds the cut pieces that will be sewn together into a quilt. and "quiltbag" holds ALL the pieces that form the community. and the word quilt? oh my goodness, to me that feels like a gentle nod of remembrance for everyone we've lost to aids, because it evokes the aids quilt. (i was in my 20s when the aids hit hard in the us.) less emotionally: it's also easy to say! tl;dr: i love the word quiltbag because of all the meaning and symbology -- and i had NO CLUE this wasn't common knowledge, oops!🙀💜xo

[cuartist]

started looking through the interactive aids quilt a little bit ago, and i just saw it was worlds aids day, so I wanted to post some of the ones I screenshot

i’m gonna try and look through another column soon

[bostonfly]

December 1 is World AIDS Day

We invite you to EXPLORE the Quilt online and search for the name of a friend or loved one who may have their name sewn into the Quilt. More than 700,000 lives have been lost to AIDS since the first cases were reported 40 years ago. The Quilt has nearly 110,000 names sewn into its panels.