A Prayer to Pandemic Ancestors
When I was eighteen years old — a new high school graduate preparing to head off into the world on my own for the first time, who had just managed to break away from an incredibly abusive relationship — I had an HIV scare. I was born in 1992, so I’m old enough to remember when there were still images on the news of people dying from AIDS, and as I sat in the exam room at Planned Parenthood watching the nurse draw dark red blood from my arm, I felt paralyzed by the fear that I, too, might join their ranks.
I thank my gods every day that my test came back negative. There are many who are not so lucky as me. But although my experience was traumatic, the truth is that I grew up in a world where HIV diagnosis is no longer a death sentence: in the year 2020, the same year that COVID-19 has destroyed life as we know it, HIV infection is more manageable than diabetes. That is nothing short of a miracle, and when I think about how very far things have come since the first patients were admitted to San Francisco general hospital ICU with a mysterious “gay cancer” in the summer of 1981, I am overcome with love and gratitude for the AIDS activists of the 80s and 90s whose rage and grief and fear and hope made such a miracle possible. Who made it possible for terrified eighteen year old me to at least know that had I tested positive, my life would have been irrevocably altered, but not over.
At the same time, my heart aches for the ones for whom that miracle came too late, and for those who still don’t have access to prevention and treatment thanks to systemic oppression, stigma, and shame.
What does any of this have to do with COVID-19? Well, a lot, actually. Maybe it’s just me, but I see many parallels between the COVID-19 crisis and the early days of AIDS.
Like coronavirus, HIV was a novel virus that seemed to come out of nowhere, blindsiding the entire world. It’s also interesting to note that both viruses are zoonotic: HIV originated with non-human primates, whereas coronavirus seems to have originated in bats.
In the early days of AIDS, the public was assured that only “high risk” groups were in danger, which later turned out to be false. In both cases, these “high risk” groups were made up of people who the dominant culture considers disposable: in the 80s and 90s, it was Queer men, trans folks, poor people, sex workers, and people who use drugs. In 2020, it’s disabled folks, incarcerated folks, poor people (yet again), and the elderly.
People of color and especially Black people were hit much harder than white folks during the AIDS crisis, and to this day, many Black folks living with HIV are unable to access treatment and care thanks to systemic racism. This heartbreaking pattern is continuing to play out as Black and brown people continue to become ill and die from COVID-19 at a much higher rate than white people.
If you’ve been on social media lately, you’ve probably had the misfortune of coming across ludicrous conspiracy theories surrounding coronavirus, mainly from right-wing folks who refuse to believe the virus is real, or that it’s not as dangerous as the science is suggesting. You may be surprised to learn that AIDS deniers also exist to this very day, who continue to peddle anti-science propaganda that leaves people at risk for HIV infection. Both AIDS and COVID-19 fueled rampant xenophobia as well: Haitians were scapegoated for bringing AIDS to the United States (a claim with dubious scientific backing) and Queer folks were accused of purposefully infecting “good” victims (i.e., straight, cisgender, white) by tricking straight people into sex or hiding infected needles in public spaces. Today, Asians and Asian Americans are being demonized and attacked for the spread of coronavirus in a similar fashion.
While AIDS didn’t bring the entire economy to a screeching halt or require mass quarantine measures, life did come to a screeching halt for the Queer community: bars and nightclubs (which in some areas were the only places for Queer people to gather and meet one another) shuttered across the country. People were outed and lost their jobs and homes over fear of the virus. Many sick folks were completely ostracized by their families and left to die alone. And in both cases, the US government failed to act until it was too late, and thousands of lives had been needlessly lost.
The similarities are striking. That’s why it’s critical that we look to the wisdom of the AIDS activists of the last 39 years for hope and guidance as we face off with coronavirus. We may not be able to congregate together for mass demonstrations or “die-ins,” but in some ways, we’re even more fortunate that we have so much digital technology available for organizing and supporting one another.
I work with ancestors as part of my spiritual practice, and that includes more than just my genetic ancestors. It also includes Queer ancestors and witchy ancestors, and feminist foremothers. And at this moment in time, we need to call on the wisdom of pandemic ancestors.
Pandemics are scary, but they are also catalysts for radical change. Human history has been shaped, for good and bad, by the tiny little microbes that share this planet with us. AIDS pushed Queer liberation into the national conversation for the first time. The Black Death was the spark that led to class restructuring in medieval Europe. The Spanish flu changed the course of the 20th century.
Now, coronavirus is here to teach us new lessons about community, solidarity, and living in harmony with the Earth. We need to listen. And we must call upon the ancestors to help us through. May we become good ancestors for the ones who come after us.
