My First Experience with HIV/AIDS

The very first time I remember being encountered with AIDS was in the early-mid 90’s. I think I must have been somewhere between 7 and 10 when one of my mom’s former students stopped by. My mom invited him in for tea, and then lunch, and all I remember of the conversation is being somewhat by whatever they were talking about, but also intrigued by this enigmatic, flamboyant young man at our table. And I remember being shocked when he finally left, and my mom just started crying and took his plate, his tea cup, and his utensils, and threw them in the garbage.
Now, my mom is both a diehard hippy and has a persistent love of learning. I know now that she didn’t actually think that her family could contract HIV/AIDS from Sampson’s plate, or cup, or fork, but in that moment the terror was just too great, the risk, though small, just wasn’t worth taking. At the time, I remember asking my mom why she was throwing these things out, and I also remember her explaining, through her tears, about HIV/AIDS, how it could be contracted (and how it was unlikely that it could contracted from a plate), and how deathly it was, and how much she didn’t want me to even have the smallest risk of contracting (although I was very lucky that at this time my mom told me to use protection when I would finally have sex, instead of just telling me not have sex at all).
Once again, I must apologize for the lack of academia so far in this post, but I do think this story has some academic clout because it really speaks to that intense fear of death, that emotional side of HIV/AIDS that is so so powerful. Of course, cancer has its own emotional baggage, but not, as we talked about in class, the same stigma, and certainly not the same fear of infection. Its telling to me that my mother, a woman who I respect and emulate above all others, a woman with a masters degree from the University of San Francisco, can still be so illogical as to contradict the facts she knows and throw away a plate. In most ways, I think Justin really spoke what I’ve also been feeling in reading about the HIV/AIDS crisis: I just can’t get it. It was such a profound moment of loss, and it was dealt with in such a insulting and demeaning way. And that loss and that insult are so hard to come to grips with when viewed from my simultaneously innocent and knowledgeable perspective.
Today Sampson still visits us at our house—I’ve probably seen him 3 or 4 times since that first time. However, he’s never stayed for lunch again, and I have no idea what my mom would do with the plate she fed him on. In many ways, I think she might do the exact same thing she did 10 years ago, and as much as I know its wrong, I don’t know that I would try to stop her.