Somewhere in the decades since gay, white men first rallied to fight the disease that had plagued their community, African-American men and women found themselves in the midst of a sneak attack.
HIV, though eventually found in people as varied as hemophilic children to affluent sports stars, is not altogether colorblind. But it’s not a secret that the virus has discriminatorily swept through minority neighborhoods and taken its hold among African Americans most of all — that is undeniably apparent.
The real secret is how best to move forward.
The years that followed the disease’s spread have brought town hall meetings, new initiatives and passionate calls for action. But addressing race and a tainted disease has proven far more troublesome than implementing a few safe sex programs. Even some of the most outspoken advocates tiptoe around the sensitive issues, and those closest to the efforts are torn. How does a community combat an epidemic that carries so many stigmas, without indicting a race of people?
Some, like Don Bruner of Black Men Latino Men Health Crisis in Rochester, call fervently for HIV prevention tailored to minority neighborhoods. Bruner, who’s lost friends and his brother to the disease, talks furiously of how federally funded programs have targeted gay men and drug users, and African Americans have remained too quiet on the issue to generate attention.
“The black community as a whole hasn’t embraced the severity of the impact on our community. … We are 20 years behind. Everybody in Rochester knows somebody who knows somebody — and I’m talking about somebody black — affected by AIDS. But how do we break the silence?”
Others, like AIDS Community Health Center volunteer LaDawn Williams, fear centralized attention will stigmatize their race and create a misconception that the disease can only come to poor, black people. Even the ribbons and pins meant to show support make her cringe. Instead of solid red ribbons signaling HIV and AIDS awareness, many advocates now wear tri-colored ribbons: red, green and black, the colors of African nationhood. In a way, that means all the stigmas that go along with the disease also fall heavily upon one race.
“I know it’s affecting us more. But I don’t want to make it a black issue,” she says. “Every time this subject comes up, I swear to God I see the word ’stigma.’…Why is it that there is so much stigma with this, as opposed to, let’s say, cancer?”
Overcoming denial
In Monroe County, where about 14 percent of the population is black, the latest statistics from the health department report 56 percent of men and 65 percent of women diagnosed with HIV in 2006 were African American. But in spite of impassioned advocates, the infection rates are veiled by shame, and the faces behind the statistics are hidden and easy to ignore.
“If we keep denying, it’s going to make us sicker,” says Brian Pollard, a volunteer with Action for a Better Community. “I know it’s going to get worse.”
In 1985, just four years after doctors began documenting the first cases of AIDS, Pollard went into a New Jersey emergency room with an inflamed pancreas. An intravenous drug user who’d shared some needles, he indifferently agreed when a nurse asked whether he’d like to get checked for a new infection that seemed to be on the rise.
He tested positive. For years afterward, Pollard was a staunch denier, refusing to tell anyone about the diagnosis, even skipping rounds of medication.
In 2005, when basketball legend Earvin “Magic” Johnson spoke in Rochester, Pollard said he was changed by the image of the black NBA star speaking of how the disease was devastating minority communities.
Now 42 and living in Rochester, Pollard wears a red, green and black wristband imprinted with the word “Hope” — a souvenir from Johnson’s speech — and passes out condoms and talks to youth. On his outreach assignments, he sees many other African Americans “in denial.” Those who think they could have HIV are too afraid to get tested; those who already have the diagnosis are too ashamed to speak out.
“It’s devastating,” he says. “With the numbers rising, this is going to be the number one killer for us in the African-American community. … Do we have to be in denial of this virus?”
Moving forward
LaRon Nelson of the Monroe County Health Department is adamant that African Americans are no more likely to do drugs or have promiscuous relationships than white people. Once a disease comes into a community, it proliferates because of a domino effect, with African Americans more likely to contract the disease from sexual partners simply because other African Americans already have the disease, he says.
Advocates like Nigeria native Emmanuel Oparah of Action for a Better Community, argue that researchers need to start over again with scientific studies and find concrete reasons why rates of HIV and AIDS in Africa and the United States are far higher among black people than other races.
But until then, responses mostly come in Band-Aids.
In Rochester, nonprofits like AIDS Community Health Center, Action for a Better Community, AIDS Rochester and Unity Health System’s McCree McCuller Wellness Center all started programs in recent years that target minorities with outreach events and free HIV testing. Black Men Latino Men Health Crisis has barbers in African-American neighborhoods hand out pamphlets and talk to clients about the disease. Anthony Jordan Health Center received a federal grant this year to run a counseling program geared toward African Americans with HIV.
But the efforts are mostly fragmented, and funding hardly reliable. While the number of federal dollars budgeted for HIV and AIDS programs has grown significantly over the last two decades, countless advocates of all sorts of community programs tug at whatever remains after money is directed toward medical care, housing assistance, research and international programs. The guidelines on applying for federal HIV and AIDS grants have also grown tougher, and funding for minority-targeted initiatives remains scarce.
“We need people on the streets, mass media campaigns, black leaders, black ministers who step up to the plate and talk about this,” says Paula Silvestone, executive director of AIDS Rochester. “But it oftentimes boils down to money.”
Tackling education
Racial disparities are nothing new, and the HIV numbers come in the context of many other health and socioeconomic problems that have long afflicted black men and women in far higher proportions than other groups.
But unlike cancer rates or sickle cell anemia cases, HIV statistics are mostly addressed with thorny discussions or deliberate ignorance. Many years after reports first revealed HIV’s disturbing hold on the black population, the only real consensus is that something must be done.
Some advocates believe if those who are infected speak out, the disease can shed some of its shame, and constructive discussions of HIV and race could begin.
But the catch: With so many stigmas, most are reluctant to name their illness.
“There are so many people in this community that are infected that could be instrumental in speaking out, but because of fear of being stigmatized, they won’t,” says Williams, the AIDS Community Health Center volunteer.
A dedicated exception, Frances Marion frequently submits her story — that of a 62-year-old black mother and grandmother living in Irondequoit.
She was married three times. Never thought the gay, white man’s disease had anything to do with her. Then she found her third husband in bed with another man.
She tested positive in 1991, and has since told women’s groups and TV stations her tale. She knows it won’t solve the epidemic, but it’s a way to begin the discussions.
“Don’t be dumbfounded like I was: That’s why I’m being open and honest with other people. … The ones I talk to, I think they are listening,” she says. “And I want everybody to know.”
Source: Democrat and Chronicle
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