Like a Love Story(87)
“I’m ready for it all,” she says. “Bring on the trogs.”
Now I laugh too. We laugh together. We laugh for the rest of the hour, and when our time together is up, we meet the others in the lobby as planned. Jimmy has been working with an affinity group that’s planning on setting off multicolored military smoke grenades outside the NIH. As we all walk together, Jimmy explains this element of the action to us. “The whole idea is to get on the cover of the newspapers. See, a lot of papers are printing their front pages in color now. The rest is still black and white, but the front pages, those are bright and colorful. This affinity group had an ingenious idea. Basically, give the papers a color image that they cannot say no to. Rainbow smoke bombs outside the NIH.”
“But is it safe?” Mrs. Bowman asks. “Because this movement is about saving lives, not hurting people, right?”
“No one will get hurt,” Jimmy says. “It’s totally safe. It’ll just be beautiful and cinematic.”
“Leave it to fags to turn protest into installation art,” I say. Mrs. Bowman shoots me a look of death, and I correct myself. “Sorry. Leave it to homosexuals to turn protest into installation art.”
“Where does one buy multicolored grenades?” Judy asks.
“Soldier of Fortune magazine,” Jimmy says. “You can find anything in the back of a magazine these days.”
“Wow,” Reza says. “I guess you really can buy everything in America.”
“Except life-saving medication,” Jimmy says. “That’s either too expensive or not approved yet.”
No one says much after that. A somber silence hovers around us, like Stephen is walking by our side. I can almost feel him, smell him, hear him. And then I imagine José walking next to him, and Walt walking next to Jimmy. And James Baldwin leading us, and Michelangelo, and Oscar Wilde, and Judy Garland. They’re all walking with us. When we arrive at the protest, one of Jimmy’s friends tells us that over one thousand people showed up. “It’s incredible,” the activist says. “This turnout will show them how much we care.” I want to tell him that even more people are here than he thinks, because there are spirits protesting alongside us.
Jimmy and the members of the affinity group run toward the entrance of the NIH, holding long poles, and then they ignite the grenades. I’m so mesmerized for a moment that I forget to raise my camera up and take pictures. That’s how beautiful it is, how powerful. We have taken grenades, symbols of destruction, and turned them into symbols of love, of color, of hope.
And then, CHAOS.
People are chanting, demanding changes to the underrepresentation of women and people of color in clinical trials, demanding more and better treatment for all the opportunistic infections that come with AIDS.
The police are standing on guard, ready to make arrests, ready to pin people to the ground, handcuff them, silence them.
Activists lie down on the lawn, another die-in, their limp bodies a stark contrast to the lush green grass, glimmering in the springtime sun.
Other activists choose a more physical approach, using each other’s hands to springboard onto the concrete of the building, literally becoming one with the structure as they chant.
Health Care Is a Right.
We’re Fired Up.
Act Up, Fight AIDS.
NIH workers exit the building. They attempt to engage with protesters. Words are exchanged, loudly, passionately. Activists plead with them. So many people are screaming that I can only hear pieces of what each is saying.
“. . . killing us. It’s toxic . . .”
“. . . BETTER DRUGS NOW . . .”
“. . . opportunistic infections . . .”
“. . . BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS . . .”
Jimmy gets in the face of an NIH suit. “And people of color? We’re getting infected and dying at disproportionate rates, but where are we in your trials? Do our bodies not matter to you? DOES MY LIFE NOT MATTER TO YOU?”
A group of activists blows horns in unison. They blow a horn every twelve minutes, because that’s how often someone dies of AIDS in this country.
Jimmy is still screaming at the NIH suit when a police officer approaches. The moment the policeman gets close to him, Jimmy goes limp, allowing himself to be cuffed and pulled away.
“Jimmy!” Mrs. Bowman screams.
“Art, take my picture,” Jimmy yells. “Stephen wants to see everything.”
I take his picture as he’s pulled away, and it’s horrible and beautiful all at the same time. I photograph it all, each frame so full of action. I snap Reza, his beautiful face surrounded by red, yellow, and green smoke bombs. I snap Judy, holding her sign that now reads DEAD FROM HOMOPHOBIA, the PHOBIA written in her mom’s handwriting. Judy holds the sign high up in the air, and Mrs. Bowman’s arm is draped proudly and protectively around her daughter. I snap it all, until I have no film left, until the protest is over.
We are not arrested, and Jimmy isn’t held long. Mrs. Bowman says there’s room for us in the car she rented, and so we all cram in. Mrs. Bowman says the car has a CD player and asks if any of us have some CDs with us. Reza pulls Like a Prayer from his Discman and hands it to her. On the way back to New York, we all sing along together, reliving the concert. When Like a Prayer ends, Reza pulls out True Blue, and we listen to that, singing extra loud during “Jimmy, Jimmy,” and staring ahead in silence during “Live to Tell.” By the time we reach the rental car place, Mrs. Bowman knows all the lyrics.