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"Monday, Novemeber 6, 1989

 

Other Press

The AIDS Quilt:

A Testament of Love

For three days in Washington D.C. on Thanksgiv-
ing weekend friends, lovers and relatives of some
of the 60,000 people who have died of AIDS in the
U.S. read out the names of the dead while
thousands miore looked over the AIDS quilt. With
more than 10,000 panels -- each representing one
person who has died of AIDS -- the quilt stretched
across the huge park in front of the White House.
Astaggering spectacle, it represents only a fraction
of the human cost of AIDS.

Link staffer and former National Features Writer
Danielle Comeau describes the historic unfurling
of the AIDS quilt in the U.S. capitol.

 

by Danielle Comeau (CUP)

Washington -- A crisp wind is
sending a chill through the
thousands of people already mill-
ing around Washington’s capital
area. Monumental buildings sur-
round us, glowing an eerie white in
the bright morning sunlight. The
White House, the Lincoln
memorial, the Capital building --
seen so often on television -- look
unreal close up.

Beneath the looming Lincoln
memorial, people are gathering for
the largest demonstration of home-
less people ever. By the end of the
day, more than 150,000 people will
pass by the monument, a stark
reminder that in George Bush’s
* gentler, kinder nation’, millions of
people live on the streets.

Across from the memorial is a

know, people we love. The quilt
compels one to become emotional-
ly involved.

Ata podium nearby, beside the
National Christmas tree, names of
the dead are read throughout the
three days of the quilt’s showing.
One after the other the names flow,
read out by mothers, brothers,
aunts, and lovers of the dead.
Quietly they line up behind the
podium, waiting to publicly share
their grief, voice anger at govern-
ment inaction over AIDS funding,
and drive home the senselessness
of these deaths.

Thousands of people quietly
wind their way through the quilt.
Despite the size of the crowd, a
silence hangs over the Ellipse. The
reading of names and the roar of
jets flying overhead from RFK Air-
port are the only sounds. Hundreds

 

 

"Real people die of AIDS,
people we know, people we
love."

 

 

huge oval-shaped lawn, called the
Ellipse. It sits directly in front of the
White House. The size of several
football fields, it takes several
minutes just to walk across. All
around the Ellipse there is activity
-- volunteers, tourists, and curiosity
seekers are waiting for the unfurl-
ing of the AIDS quilt.

Suddenly, hundreds of people
wearing white "Names Project"
sweatshirts move onto the Ellipse
and start unfolding the largest quilt
ever made. More than 10,000 in-
dividual panels, roughly the size of
a grave and each representing
someone who has died of AIDS,
stretch across the field, with 49
miles of walkway weaving in be-
tween. The panels are made by the
lovers, family or friends of some-
one who died of AIDS.

Seeing the quilt in its entirety
leaves one with an overwhelming
feeling of grief at the enormity of
loss -- so many people, young and
in the prime of their lives. Statistics
are dry and abstract: 60,000 dead of
AIDS in the U.S., more than
100,000 reported AIDS cases. The
numbers do not give any sense of
the human face of this virus: real
people die of AIDS, people we

stand around the podium, watching
the readers come up, one after the
other. Most people weep openly. It
is a scene of incredible grief, yet it
is strangely empowering because
of the strength of their commitment
to not let us forget.

"As a recent PWA (person
with AIDS)," says one reader, "I
just want them (his dead friends) to

- know that I’m trying to hold up the

strength in their memory." Another
reader asks us to "remember my
dear friend and roommate Michael
Pitkin. Please say hello to him at
panel 0914."

A young woman walks up to
the microphone. Her voice break-
ing with emotion, she wants "to
remember the most courageous
person I’ve ever known -- my
brother Barry Nelson Roberts."
Phrases such as, "my dear lover of
18 years," and "my precious only
son," and "the best friend I ever
had," stream out all day. The sense
of loss is profound -- these people
are too young, much too young to
be dying of this disease.

William Hibbs is talking ener-
getically with a CBS news reporter
at the Names Project’s media
centre. An AIDS activist with the

Dr. James F. Holleran Memorial
National AIDS Bereavement
Centre, Hibbs has spent a gruelling
day as the official spokesperson for
the Names Project. "He’s supposed
to be sick," says one of the centre’s
staff, "but he’s been going like this
all day."

In the last two years, Hibbs has
been hospitalised 16 times and suf-
fered seven heart attacks. At age
39, he’s dying of AIDS and has six
months to live. "Yet, I’m one of the
lucky ones," he says, because he
has medical insurance and a sup-
port network helping him through
his crisis. With medical bills of
more than $200,000, and $1,500 in
monthly prescriptions, AIDS is as
crippling financially as it is physi-
cally.

"What happens to the in-
dividuals who fall through the
crack? They’re treated like lepers,
and this is the sad thing -- the loss
of dignity. That’s what the quilt is
all about. You see the dignity in
those quilts. You see the love, and

The quilt is an educational
tool, drawing attention to the need
for people to change their sexual
practices. It also puts pressure on
government officials to increase
funding to AIDS programmes.
Hibbs credits the Names Project

epidemic. Earlier this year, sections
of the quilt toured through 19 North
American cities, including
Montreal last June, in conjunction
with the International Conference
on AIDS.

It is a critical time in the AIDS

 

 

"It is a scene of incredible
grief, yet it is strangely em-
powering...."

 

 

and other activist groups with the
continuing rise in funding levels
over the past three years.

Hibbs travels all over the
world speaking about AIDS, even
though his health is precarious at
best. "If someone can hear my
voice and then go back and think
about what they’ve heard, and from
that go out and do something posi-
tive like hug an AIDS person, then
it’s worth it."

 

 

“AIDS is the only thing I’ve
seen that does not dis-
criminate"

 

 

also the tears."

Soft spoken and charming,
Hibbs is passionate about the
Names Project and its role in the
AIDS crisis. The quilt forces
people to confront the reality that
people in the prime of their lives are
being killed by this disease.

"It’s so vivid. It’s like Sunday
in the park, only the park is a
cemetery." Hibbs hopes people
come away from the quilt ready to
be more responsible by practicing
safe sex.

"If you have sex without using
a condom or dental dam, you’re
playing Russian roulette," says
Hibbs. "And I’m telling you one of
those barrels is going to be loaded,
and it’s going to explode on you."

A San Francisco man named
Cleve Jones, the executive director
of the Names Project, first came up
with the idea of the quilt in 1986. It
was unveiled in 1987 in
Washington to coincide with a
huge march in support of lesbian
and gay rights which drew nearly
one million people. That year, there
were 2,000 panels in the quilt. The
following year, the quilt had grown
to 8,200 panels, and this year the
number is at more than 10,000. Yet
this represents only a fraction of the
people who have died of AIDS.

Jones says the quilt initially
began as the lesbian and gay
community’s response to its devas-
tation by AIDS, but it now reaches
out to everyone affected by the

crisis, according to Jones, and this
year government leaders have been
urged to come view the quilt.
"Decisions about AIDS made in the
coming months will help decide
whether the ultimate death toll
from the pandemic is measured in
tens of thousands or tens of mil-
lions," says Jones. "It is imperative
that those decisions be made with
compassion, and we know that
seeing the quilt opens people’s
hearts and minds to the reality of
this epidemic and the need for an
immediate and compassionate
response.”

Thousands of people from the
Housing Now demo, perhaps tired
of listening to speeches or to the
Jefferson Airplane, make their way
from the Capital Mall to the Ellipse.
Walking through the quilt, one sees
names we all know: Rock Hudson,
Perry Ellis, Klaus Nomi, Robert
Mapplethorpe. But sadder are the
anonymous panels, or the ones with
only first names or initials, such as
"Baby Jessica", "Father Tom -- you
were a damn good priest", and
"Goodbye Dad”.

"You’ve got to remember that
every person with AIDS is
somebody’s child and that we’re
not the stereotype’s at all," says
Hibbs. "You’ve seen actors out
there (on the quilt), politicians,
babies, young mothers, IV drug
users... AIDS is the only thing that
I’ve ever seen in my whole life that
does not discriminate."