HIV…I Got It!

My first staff meeting at Test Positive Aware Network 15 years ago all began innocently enough.

I took my seat at the one empty chair in a circle around the room. I was then instructed, very matter-of-factly, that as the newest member of the organization, and this being my first meeting, as was customary I was to inform the rest of the staff whether I was a top, or a bottom.

I’m pretty sure that the look of relief that swept across my face was readily apparent once it was explained that they would no longer be asking that question of new staff members, beginning with me (a few chuckles were heard around the room). But it then occurred to me that maybe they didn’t even feel the need to ask—perhaps the answer to the question was already obvious. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

So that’s how it started, and from there it only continued to get worse. As updates from various staff members on the different programs, initiatives, proposals, events and local and national news began circulating around the room, I quickly found myself immersed in what I like to call “acronym hell.” It felt as though I was suddenly thrust into a Peanuts television cartoon, and I was sitting in a classroom, listening to Charlie Brown’s teacher saying, “Wah…wah, wah…wah, wah, wah, wah, wah.”

What language were they speaking?

ADAP? The ACTG? The CPCRA? AZT I understood, as it was one of only three drugs approved at the time. And PCP I’d heard of, but didn’t really know what it stood for. And HIV? Well, HIV I got. The banter continued back and forth, and as the time passed, I quickly began to feel overwhelmed. Since it was my first staff meeting, I of course wanted to leave a good impression. I thought if I asked too many questions right off the bat that it would appear I didn’t know anything at all.

So I pretended to understand what everyone was talking about, carefully studying the expressions of the others in the room, nodding every now and then, donning a stern look on my face at certain points in the discussion, and laughing at other times when it seemed appropriate. I inwardly cursed myself for not bringing a notepad.

The longer the meeting dragged on, though, the deeper into HIV hell I fell. ASO, CD4, PWA, MSM. Every once in a while a term would float to the surface of my consciousness, such as FDA or CDC, that I would dimly recognize. But just as quickly the flame of recognition would flutter, and back to the depths of the fire I would descend, consumed by CMV, DSMB, and ARV.

As more and more letters and words I didn’t comprehend were tossed about, the less and less I understood. I finally reached a point where I felt like I did on my first day in Paris. I had awoken early that morning and snuck out to a coffee house on the Left Bank just before sunrise while my partner slept. There I was, surrounded by locals who were drinking (and not just coffee) and conversing animatedly in French about the day ahead. I was swept up in all the excitement, feeling invigorated and thrilled, and somehow like I was a part of it all. But I left ultimately feeling oddly alone and somewhat isolated. I was out of my element, in over my head. And very, very far from home.

So there you have it. My first day of working in an ASO (AIDS Service Organization). I had a pounding headache. For a split second I thought to myself that possibly I’d bitten off more than I could chew—that maybe this wasn’t the right gig for me. But I’ve come to recognize over the course of my life a repeating pattern, a tendency to want to flee once the going gets tough.

I ultimately decided to stick with it. I guess probably, and most importantly, because I felt like I had found a family, a second home. I had come to TPAN first as a client, and then as a volunteer. And now I was working with a great group of people who I felt I could trust. I began to ask questions at meetings when I didn’t understand a word or an acronym. I soon realized that everyone has to start somewhere. Just as I was learning, all of the people who had come before me had started learning at some point too. No question is too stupid, only the answers.

And so I continue to ask questions to this very day. I never stop trying to learn as much as I can about HIV. I encourage everyone else to take it upon themselves to do the same. Don’t ever be afraid to ask for help. And don’t ever feel that you are alone. Someday you may be called upon to help another. And when you see that glimmer of recognition in their eyes, and you see that they get it, it will finally make it all worthwhile.

Take care of yourself, and each other.

Jeff Berry
Editor
publications@tpan.com