I write this on Easter, a celebration of rebirth. But we in the HIV
community are marking a different season, which descended suddenly on
February 11 with the “supervirus” public-health emergency. We see only
the rebirth of fear. The case, by now, is famous. A gay New Yorker
in his 40s, who had stayed uninfected for almost two decades,
seroconverted last fall. In recent years, he’d begun using crystal meth
and attending the marathon unprotected-sex parties it fuels. Like meth
itself, his virus is immensely powerful and nearly untreatable, and his
first lab numbers were terrifying: 40 T cells and resistance to 19 of
20 HIV meds. By February 11, he was reportedly off crystal, on
treatment and helping the health department contact his sex partners.
But many, of course, were anonymous. And given the crystal use and
unprotected sex among gay New Yorkers, this man’s infection may be only
the first to be identified. There could have been, by February 11,
hundreds more.
On the steps of City Hall that day, the city’s
health commissioner, Thomas Frieden, MD, fed the press a worst-case
scenario. Flanked by AIDS service organization honchos, gay pols and
other advocates, he said, “It is likely there are others infected with
this strain and this individual has infected others.” To HIVers he
exaggerated the risks of reinfection: “You need to protect yourself
against being infected with another strain of HIV which could make you
very sick even if you’re doing well now.” Our leaders chimed in with
variations on the “safe-sex wake-up call” theme. The story multiplied
and mutated faster than the supervirus itself. A typical tabloid
headline shrieked: AIDS Nightmare Rocks America.
Facing
the spectre of a serial-killer supervirus stalking the city, we may
sound petty asking whether our officials and advocates acted in good
faith. After all, a public alarm could finally discipline the entire
crystal-sex subculture: Get clean, get condoms, above all, get tested.
And following our leaders’ relentless sermon that AIDS is still a
deadly disease, calls to hotlines, visits to testing centers and, no
doubt, donations are up again. Indeed, what most comforts those who
gathered at city hall seems to be the unmistakable sign that fear—the
raw AIDS dread not seen in more than a decade—is reborn.
But
why? Frieden’s nightmare scenario has—thankfully—so far failed to
materialize. Despite an unprecedented nationwide hunt for matching
strains, we’ve seen only the one lonely case. The man is faring better
than expected: His five-drug combo is partially controlling his virus,
though his immune system has yet to rebound. (Could the sheer stress of
the frenzied headlines, doom-and-gloom science and community
hand-wringing, not to mention becoming the right wing’s posterboy for
barebacking druggie burn-in-hell homos, bear some blame for his T-cell
count?) As this “emergency” evolves, the celebrated return to fear
looks increasingly like a trick by authorities and advocates who have,
understandably, thrown up their hands at our high rate of drug use and
unsafe sex.
Thanks to Frieden, the media has its new patient
zero, and the man will have to fight to protect his anonymity and his
health. But our questions should cut deeper than his mere identity;
they should make us question our own. Why does a man in his 40s come to
value staying uninfected less than losing himself in a drugged-out
desire? As a man in his 40s who has stayed uninfected, I can
sympathize. Being negative is nothing to be proud of; being positive is
no cause for shame. If we longtime neggies have anything to sing about,
it is finding the courage to get over AIDS dread and to take informed
risks for the sake of pleasure. We make mistakes. But we’d rather risk
getting carried away—and infected—one crazy night than live our days
frozen in fear. That city officials and AIDS leaders would revive our
fears rather than celebrate our courage may be the real emergency here.
Walter Armstrong Editor in Chief e-mail: waltera@poz.com
