gran varones turns 5 this year and what better way to begin that celebration by announcing our first fellowship for hiv positive varones creatives.

the positive digital arts fellowship will work with 5 hiv positive latinx and afro-latinx men who identify as gay, queer, trans or bi. the fellowship will provide support and tools on creating digital content that challenges hiv stigma and promotes family acceptance.

for more information or to check out the application

please share with your networks.

may 21 will mark the 40th anniversary of the white night riots that took place in san francisco in 1979 after dan white was sentenced to just 8 years in prison for the murder of mayor george moscone and supervisor harvey milk.

by the turn of the 1970’s, the castro district of san francisco had become a queer & trans utopia that provided a sense of sexual freedom, liberation, and self-realization. however, both local and national anti-gay legislation & sentiments were threatening that paradise.

in 1977, miss america runner-up & florida citrus orange juice “queen” lead a successful “save our children” campaign to overturn a dade county ordinance prohibiting discrimination based on sexual orientation. that win launched a nat’l movement against the lgbtq community.

in 1978, harvey milk, the first out gay man to be elected to public office in CA, helped to get a non-discrimination ordinance signed in to SF law & was integral in mobilizing lgbtq folks and allies to shut down a statewide bill to ban gay teachers.

former cop dan white, who was elected to the SF board of supervisors the same time as harvey, was the only board member to vote against the non-discrimination bill. embarrassed and angered that his own bills failed, white resigned from his position on november 10, 1978.

in the following weeks, white reconsidered his decision and asked to be reappointed to his position. after being told during a radio interview that another person would be appointed to the board in his place, dan white set out to punish those he felt had humiliated him.

on the morning of november 27, 1978, dan white snuck into city hall through a side window & with a loaded 38 caliber smith & wesson,  and traveled to city hall. walked into the office of mayor george moscone, an ally of harvey’s & shot him 4 times, 2 shots to the head.

as dan white rushed through the hall searching harvey milk, he stop to reload his gun. when he found harvey down the hall, white shot harvey 5 times, two times in the head. the murders shocked an already devastated city who that just beginning to process the jonestown massacre.

in may of 1979, white was tried for 2 counts of 1st degree murder. however, the mostly older white & working class jury delivered a guilty verdict of voluntary manslaughter w/ sentence of just 8 yrs. for gay community, this was further proof that the justice system was anti-gay.

thousands marched to city hall to protest the verdict. some held signs that read, “pity for the privilege, death penalty for the poor” and “white(s) get away with murder.” as the crowd grew, the pain and disappointment quickly turned into collective rage.

outnumbered by the gays, cops retreated as the gays rioted at city hall breaking windows. when things subsided, folks headed back to the castro district. in retaliation, police descended onto the castro and invaded a gay bar later that night.

police violently struck gay patrons. still filled with complete fury and disdain of the police state and justice system, the gays fought back and set police cars on fire. by the end of the night, dozens of police cars were set ablaze and 20 people were arrested.

the white night riots are an important chapter in queer history. on the night of may 21, 1979, the san francisco gays challenged the police state and defended themselves from police violence. they set the city on fire.

the following san francisco pride, marchers held signs that read “lesbians against police violence” & “end police violence.” cops were seen as a threat to queer liberation. later that year, in november of 1979, close to 100,000 people marched in support gay rights in DC.

the white night riots signaled a continued a trans & queer revolution that was ignited during the stonewall uprising 10 years earlier. pride marches were political and even more so just two years later when the aids epidemic began its assault on the queer community

sadly, in many ways, the aids epidemic truncated the revolution that we were on the brink of by stealing the lives of those who knew our liberation could never be realized under the police state.

BAN POLICE FROM PRIDE!

this pride season, may we all remember that the first pride was a riot. every culture shift for our basic human rights have been because of riots and direct actions. this year, honor black and brown trans women who rioted for us. remember the white night rioters by banning police

it has been two years since christopher collins left this world. he was 37 years old. he was my first love and for years, my only love. he was an integral part of hiv prevention youth program development in philadelphia.

we met in the mid 1990s. we were a part of a group of black & brown queer & trans youth who were minding themselves. we didn’t have many mentors as most of the adults in our lives were either dying, caring for the dying or traumatized by the impact hiv/aids had on our community.

we were kids building rome with bricks cemented by our commitment to fuckin’ exist without apologies and shame. we bought our first rainbow necklaces together. we imagined a world for us that was yet to be written about in the books we read but we still imagined.

we both worked in hiv non-profit. that shit drained us both of life and spirit. we built programs that we had no access to. we gave the world everything including our relationship.

chris and i would work together again in 2012. we facilitated a weekly youth group for black & brown trans & queer youth. we joked about all that we survived. we cried about how the work & movement sometimes does not love you back.

chris wanted the movement and work to love him back. some of us learn to breathe through straws under the weight of the world that tells us we are not enough, our love is not enough. and some of us choose to fly in a dimension where oxygen is not restricted. chris chose the latter.

chris, the loss of your spirit is felt by those of us who survived hiv prevention of the 1990s. it is felt by those of us who continue to (barely) survive the non-profit industrial complex. your loss is felt by everyone who thought this work would save us.

chris was my first love. he was my friend. he was one of the most important relationships i had in this work. i miss his laugh. i miss him. today, i raise him up. 

rest well, chris.

if you are feeling alone and/struggling right now, remember that lifeline is here for you. call the national suicide prevention hotline at 1.800.273.TALK (8255)

My mother began smoking crack in the summer of 1986. At that time, it was widely known as “crack rock.” I was 9 years old and I already had mastered the art of secrecy. I didn’t call it art or survival; it was just life under the “rock.” I learned many things that summer that would forever change me.

I learned to check the spoons for burn residue before using them. I taught my brothers to do the same. I learned to hide my single speaker radio before going to school. I taught my brothers to do the same. I learned to play in the dark when the electricity was cut off. I learned that people were more than comfortable calling my mother “crack head” in front of our young eyes and ears. I learned to grow numb and I taught my brothers to do the same.

The greatest lesson I learned was not to be ashamed of my mother. Trust me when I say that this was no easy task during a time when life was polarized by dichotomies of “clean” or “dirty,” “crack head” or human.

These lessons sustained our sanity. These lessons fortified me, along with millions of black and brown families in the 1980s and ‘90s, tried to survive life under the “rock.”

Being the oldest child, I was charged with ensuring that my brothers were fed and taken care of. While I resented the responsibility, it provided me a kind of access to my mother that my brothers didn’t have. After coming down from her high, she would wake me from my sleep to play board games with her at 2 a.m. She would tell me about how AIDS had stolen her friends and how bad she missed them. She would tell me that I was the “good” one and it was my responsibility to keep my younger brother Nicholas out of trouble. We talked about pretty much everything – except life under the “rock.”

It was difficult for anyone in my neighborhood to call someone else’s mother a “crack head” without quickly being reminded that their mother too was a “crack head.” So, the insults had to be more specific; hairs had to be split: “Well at least my mother didn’t sell the TV.” “Well at least we have food in the house.”

My brothers and I were lucky in this sense. Our mother had done neither and so we found solace in that. I believe that this alone helped us to survive with whatever dignity we had left as I watched the will to live disappear from the eyes of other kids living in and being surrounded by crack addiction.

As noted by the U.S. Sentencing Commission, more than one thousand stories about crack appeared in the press in 1986, with NBC reporting over 400 reports on the crack “epidemic” alone. The media coverage was instrumental in shaping the nation’s perception of those who struggled with and/or were directly impacted by crack addiction. This perception has since been inherited by a new generation of HIV advocates and activists, who only associate the Presidency of Ronald Reagan with his failed response to AIDS. But those who survived the Reagan years also associate that time with the government’s swift and violent response to crack that stole the lives and promise of many, deliberately destroying black and brown families.

Thirty years later, the conversation about addiction has shifted dramatically. The same government that demonized, dehumanized and then criminalized people like my mother now urges us all to remember that people struggling with addiction have a disease and require love, patience and treatment. This reminder comes just as the face of addiction is now that of white affluent youth struggling with heroin addiction. This compassion, while critical and necessary, was not made available to black and brown communities that struggled with the presence of crack. I will venture to say that this approach is still NOT available to individuals who still struggle in the shadows of a crack addiction.

Yes, it is important that we evolve as a society and it is equally important that we make amends with ourselves for allowing this to happen on our watch. Even more importantly, we cannot validate our evolution without a true account of what happened, who it happened to and why it happened in the first place.

I have come a long way from the small room I shared with my mother and brothers. I no longer have to check spoons for burn residue but I no longer have family to bear witness to the atrocities we survived.

My mother struggled with addiction until her death. My brother Nicholas was murdered in 2001. I sometimes struggle with survivor’s guilt. This is not uncommon for those who have survived war. Every day, I am learning to reconcile my survival with the sacrifices my mother and brother made for me to live life out from under the “rock.”

Atonement is often the last act of any complete apology. As a nation, how do we atone for the heinous behavior of the government during the Reagan years? It’s simple: We don’t ignore the heroes of my generation. Instead, we honor the legacies of my mother and every mother who provided light in darkest days of the war raged on our families. We memorialize them like we would the heroes who were lost in battle.

written by: louie a. ortiz-fonseca

[originally published in the body]

I came out to my mom on the eve of thanksgiving (thankstaking) in 2012 at the age of 18. We were sitting on her bed and I was describing to her, in tears, the man I had thought I was in love with at the time, the man I thought I couldn’t live without. The heartbreak was unbearable. It was deeper, and scarier and more painful than I thought coming out would be. At 18, I had developed a connection with my mother I believed would transcend anything.

But I was a little wrong.

She was shook and it didn’t go well — to say the least.

I spent the following days in my bed wishing I could take back what I had told her because I felt I had broken her heart. Up until fairly recently, I’ve been able to understand the power I have.

I’m picking up the pieces, still learning to be patient with her. Learning that some things will never change. Still learning that boys like me have to be okay with this.

David | He/Him/His

Santa Ana, California

photographed by: louie a. ortiz-fonseca