I am HIV+. I suppose that may be a confession that lacks any real punch or panache at this stage in the game, but nonetheless I feel it needs a little time in the spotlight. On its own.
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I am telling this story in two halves. One narrative began with my first recollections, and this second account started on the day that I was offered the opportunity to become someone’s father. They will eventually merge to make a whole, but now, as I continue to ping pong between the two, the complicated relationship that I have with my virus will go through a variety of stages. The disease has now been inextricably part of my life for the past twenty-five years, and like any long-term relationship it often requires consideration, work, and attention.
When I headed home to Los Angeles after grad school I was forty-six. By then I had already lived more years of my life with HIV than without it. You might logically assume that after so much time together that my virus and I would have, in the very least, come to some kind of amicable understanding. A negotiated peace. Not the case. The truth is that we have during some periods over the past quarter of a century been embroiled in all out war. Most often times the virus attacking me first – decimating my T-cell count and pushing me toward the precipice. On those occasions I would scramble to defend myself with some new toxic cocktail; the affects of which would frequently leave us both diminished in some way. There were occasions as well when I would wage some kind of offensive of my own: an experimental infusion, a double blind study, a new and rigorous exercise regime, or perhaps just an expensive glut of vitamins. A number of these battles will be documented later as the end of the other narrative closes in on the beginning of this one.
The point for the time being is that when I arrived home from NYU, my virus and I both seemed to be resting somewhat unguarded in our neutral corners. I had done little to try and gain any kind of an upper hand for the two years that I was away, either physically or mentally, and it seemed that the poisonous intruder in my veins had retreated to a quiet dormancy as well. We had, for a time, been in a kind of standoff. Now, however, I had a new weapon in my arsenal. I was wielding a Master’s Degree. Apparently I had been absent from Los Angeles and the Hollywood machine long enough to think that this new and expensive parchment scepter I possessed was actually imbued with some kind of real power. I believed if nothing else, it would easily serve to neutralize my long-thriving self-doubt; some of which was being steadily fueled by the still quasi-secret status of my HIV.
So, with this newly acquired sense of postgraduate confidence I set immediately about the task of establishing my unequivocal dominance over the entertainment industry. I got new headshots taken – because perhaps now, at the age of forty-six, casting directors would finally see what I had to offer. Right? And…I had made a pact with myself not to cut my hair while I was in school, so I was sure that my new shoulder-length bob would quick as a cricket get me cast as the next blood-sucking hottie on HBO’s True Blood. Short of that, I could easily get work on the any minute now reboot of Dynasty as a stand-in for Linda Evans.
In addition to relighting the fuse on my acting career, I also submitted a spec script and application for the Disney/ABC Writing Fellowship. This is a diversity-based program that offers a highly select few an amazing entree into the seemingly impenetrable fortress of the television writer’s room. The last spike of my three-pronged attack – you know, on the off chance that neither of those first two ventures panned out – was my sister helping me secure a temporary secretarial gig at California State University, Northridge. Just until my Blackberry started buzzing with offers, of course.
In addition to relighting the fuse on my acting career, I also submitted a spec script and application for the Disney/ABC Writing Fellowship. This is a diversity-based program that offers a highly select few an amazing entree into the seemingly impenetrable fortress of the television writer’s room. The last spike of my three-pronged attack – you know, on the off chance that neither of those first two ventures panned out – was my sister helping me secure a temporary secretarial gig at California State University, Northridge. Just until my Blackberry started buzzing with offers, of course.Do you have any comprehension of the very complex process that lies between the first proposal of a brand new university course, and the occasion on which an actual college student is finally able to register for that class? Well, sheesh, neither did I. It turns out that curriculum development is no cakewalk. You see first– BUZZ!
It was an email. I had made the first cut of the Disney/ABC Fellowship. No joke. There was a request for an additional writing sample, and references – people who could speak about my ability as a writer. I was told that if I made it past this hurdle I would be granted a phone interview along with the remaining few semi-finalists. Beyond that, the last handful of finalists still remaining would be subjected to a three-day marathon of meetings and interviews before the final selections were made. I sent off the requested items and went back to the work of organizing my Outlook calendar.
Did you know that through Outlook you can easily set up a meeting with a large number of participants by simply– BUZZ!
This time it was a voicemail. I had made the semi-final cut. I was given a time frame and the name of the person I was to call back for my interview. I took down the information, hung up the phone, and did a little hair toss – à la Cher. You know I did.
After work I hurried to my car, took a few deep breaths, and dialed. The woman who eventually got on the line to interview me was very nice. We talked for a while. She asked me questions about what it was that inspired me to write, and what TV programs I thought were exceptional. After we both gushed over Six Feet Under for a time, there was a pause. For a second I thought the interview was over, but then it came. The final question.
“So, Jim, what is it that makes your voice unique?”
I was silent for a moment. Then I remembered. This was a fellowship based on diversity. She was asking for me to give her something that would qualify my middle-aged, white, male, NYU educated ass, as diverse. This was it – an opportunity for my HIV to actually be something positive. Surely the years that I had spent in the trenches watching my young comrades being cut down around me, and the seemingly endless mine field I had been carefully navigating for most of my adult life to avoid being obliterated myself would make me eligible.
“Unique?” I asked back.
“Yes.” She replied, and then repeated the question.
After a moment I began to ramble – something completely bland about my age and the importance of political activism, I think. Eventually the conversation lulled and she politely thanked me and said goodbye. That was the last buzz.
Smack down. There I was thinking that my virus had been laying low, when really, as always, it was actually just lying in wait. And with my guard let down, it was on the attack. In retrospect I understand why I couldn’t bring myself to share my story in that moment. I did not want my HIV to define me, or define my work. I did not want my story to elicit pity, or fear, or sympathy. Most importantly, to some extent, I was still ashamed. And just like that, once again my virus was in command.