I confess that prior to today I hadn’t thought much about the 1980s in a while, except for vainly hoping that Prince would play in Los Angeles. I’m from Los Angeles, born and bred, third or fourth generation depending how you count. I went to a west LA high school in from 1980- 1985, saw Oingo Boingo play at Loyola High. Heard Bruce Springsteen play “Born in the US” concerts, snuck in to see Tom Petty at the Whiskey. Remember REM playing the mound at UCLA.
But when I think of the 1980s, when I remember being a teenager, what I remember most is death. Horrible, horrible deaths. Young and middle aged men dying. Family, family friends, neighbors, my parents’ classmates, wasting away while their families and friends could do nothing but try and ease them, nurse them and mourn. It felt like death was everywhere. At first people were whispering about it. Talking about “cancer.” Whispers about sex and drugs. The shame of mourning. The shame of people knowing.
Hospital privileges denied to partners. Smug comments about sin.
Crude jokes.
No one could do anything. No one could say anything.
The silence from the establishment, the President was stifling.
It was such a relief when the activists in pink started appearing, started disrupting, started shouting. Literally screaming WE’RE DYING OVER HERE.
By the time someone heard them, did anything officially, years had passed. I’d gone through high school. I wasn’t a teenager anymore. I’d learned to be afraid whenever a man dropped weight fast. By then, the Reagans were finally leaving office and found “innocent” AIDS victim Ryan White and were able to talk publicly about HIV / AIDS.
I spent today remembering.