Category Archives: HIV/AIDS

A 40 Year Journey Into (And Out Of) Fear Part 2

Article, Autobiography, Gay Interest, History, HIV/AIDS, , , , ,

New words were added to our vocabulary, a series of acronyms that would imprint themselves forever into our memories…PCP (Pneumocystis pneumonia); KS (Kaposi sarcoma); CMV (Cytomegalovirus…one I’m intimately familiar with))… MAC (Mycobacterium avium complex); candidiasis (Thrush), toxoplasmosis, to name a few. When we asked how people were, we were really asking what did they have…and what was the prognosis! Meanwhile, the Australian nightmare was well and truly hitting home.

In 1986, my first close friend, Andrew Todd, died. At that time there was no dedicated AIDS ward, and Andrew was shifted between wards as beds were needed for other cases. On Christmas Day, we visited him in what was called St Christopher’s ward (due to patients travelling into and out of it), in Sydney’s St Vincent’s emergency department. He was very thin, and frail, but we had brought gifts for him, including sheet sets, and books. We were going to a friends place in Glebe for Christmas lunch. When the time came to leave, Andrew said to us, something that was quite upsetting for us, I have to say, that he ‘wouldn’t die that day, and ruin everyone’s Christmas lunch’. It unintentionally did, as we waited all day on edge, for a phone call. True to his word, he didn’t pass away on Christmas Day. He died on Boxing Day. It was my unpleasant duty to ring everyone at a party, and inform them. Party pooper status acknowledged!

His funeral at Eastern Suburbs Crematorium, a place we were to visit on far too many occasions, was several days later. His father had travelled from South Australia to oversee it. Myself and Sandro, both close friends of Andrew’s, ended up being the middle men between those of us who wanted a funeral that was honest and respectful, and the leather community who wanted what we considered an over-the-top leather funeral. We won that one.

Towards the end of the crematorium service, as the curtains were closing over the coffin, every door in the chapel suddenly, and very loudly, slammed close. The silence after was eerie. We could say it was just the wind, but one was left wondering. Andrew got the last laugh anyway. I had lent him many novels during his hospital stays, and in his will he bequeathed them all back to me.

Sex became a conundrum. As soon as it was found that HIV was sexually transmitted, the dynamics of sex changed, at least temporarily. Some guys went celibate. Others cut out anal sex altogether. Others went to odd extremes, like standing well apart and just mutually masturbating. For a culture that was heavily geared towards sex, it was a real blow. The dynamics of “picking up” changed significantly. Condoms became the new order of the day, and condom and lube “safe sex” packs were everywhere, from sex venues to pubs and nightclubs.

ACON created the Safe Sex Sluts, who at least put a bit of fun into what was now a serious subject. This, over time, created some reverse, and some dark situations. On the dark side, terms like “bug chasing” came into being. This phrase described those who deliberately sought out HIV+ guys and indulged in unsafe sex on the purely weird chance that they would get infected. “Breed me” could often be seen on sex sites, placed there by guys who wanted to become infected. It was strange times.

Then there were guys like me who just hated sex with condoms. They ruined spontaneity, and were just passion killers. Naturally, this meant we were seeking out guys to have unsafe sex. To this end, I restricted my sex life to sex with HIV+ guys only. It was politely referred to as “negotiated unsafe sex”. I could never have lived with myself if I knowingly passed on HIV to another guy, but the thinking was that it was impossible to infect a guy already infected. Talk of the risk of creating a HIV mutated “super bug” came to nothing.

Of course, this meant constantly outing yourself as HIV+, but that has never greatly concerned me, and by this time I was working on the scene so it wasn’t a risky thing to do. For the record, I had a very fulfilling sex life. There was no shortage of HIV+ guys hunting for skin-on-skin sex. Another term spawned by the era of safe sex was “barebacking”…known as normal sex (or condom-less sex) in earlier times. Yet despite all the restrictions, self imposed or otherwise, the sex-on-premises places such as Numbers Bookstore which I managed in Darlinghurst, the Toolshed, the Hellfire Club (later to become the Den Club), Club 80 (initially thought to be Ground Zero for the Sydney epidemic) and various others, and the saunas such as 253, the Roman Baths, KKK and the Steamworks, and other notorious sites such as the beat in the Green Park toilet block, and The Wall on Darlinghurst Road, thrived.

In 1984, Ward 17 South was established at St Vincent’s Hospital, Sydney which became the dedicated AIDS ward. For the next 10 years it was never empty. Palliative care was through the Sacred Heart Hospice. With the support services in place, pubs and nightclubs started running events to raise money. I think if there was ever a time where I was proud to be a member of the Sydney gay community, it was seeing the huge amounts of money raised at auctions, raffles, and events. Tens of thousands of dollars were raised from the pockets of the grassroots community, and was either spread around the various support groups, or was used to buy things like televisions for Ward 17.

In 1987, Colin Crewes, seeing the need for basic lifestyle support, such as meals, a place to meet and interact with others in the same situation, massages, hair cuts, access to magazines and newspapers, counselling services etc started the “Maitraya Day Centre” in Surry Hills (it later morphed into the “Positive Living Centre”). It had a constant stream of guys socialising there. At Milton’s Point, NorthAIDS (Myrtle Place Centre) offered the same services to those living on Sydney’s northside.

Hospitals such as Westmead, hit the headlines for all the wrong reasons; full contamination clothing for those working with HIV patients, rooms not being cleaned, meals left outside doors. According to the rumourmongers, you get HIV from using plate/cups/cutlery/glasses/toothbrushes/towels/bed linen that any infected person had used. It was anathema despite it being washed, despite all information stating that you could not contract HIV through this means. Even the poor old mosquito copped a hiding as a means of contamination. An advertising campaign in 1987 featuring the Grim Reaper bowling down people indiscriminately, created an apocalyptic vision of HIV that scared the life out of everyone. It was quickly withdrawn three weeks into its six week run.

By this stage, my two years prognosis had become four years…became six…became eight. That was great for me, but not for so many others. The obituary columns in the gay rags went from scattered memoriums to pages as the death toll mounted. My life became a haze of alcohol and cigarettes, not shared alone. Our coping mechanisms were being stretched to their limit. Funerals were a daily occurrence, as were wakes. I attended as many as I could, but I just got to a stage where I was burnt out by the continuing relentless onslaught, and stopped going.

In the 80’s, I held a lot of parties with anywhere from 40-60 friends attending. By 1996, if I had tried to hold a party I would have been lucky to have dug up 10 friends to attend. In the blink of an eye, my social circle was effectively wiped off the face of the earth. In 1997, having finally recovered from AIDS, and thinking it was time to reconnect to the community, I went out one Saturday night to The Beauchamp. For the first time in my life on the gay scene, in a crowded pub, I stood in a bar and could see NOBODY I knew. It was an incredibly lonely sensation.

Tim Alderman 2024

Above photo…Peter McCarthy, Peter Gilmore (Deceased), Bevan (Deceased),,Steve Thompson and myself at an AIDS Quilt unfolding (we were unfolders) at the RHI Pavilion (Sydney Showgrounds ) around 1992. The tee-shirts bear the Quilts Insignia, and “Remember Their Names”

A 40 Year Journey Into (And Out Of) Fear Part 1

Article, Autobiography, Gay Interest, General Interest, Health Information, HIV/AIDS, , , ,

I love history. Always have, and excelled at it at school. Not just local and world history in general, but individuals personal history as well. Though often distorted, edited to fit the times, world history is fixed. There is only one truth to it, no matter what narrators may say. Personal histories are quite a different thing. A hundred people will produce a hundred histories, each distinctly individual, never duplicated by anyone else. I have written much about my experiences with HIV over the last 25 years, most of it via “Talkabout”. Though personal, and often intimate, none have really gotten into the nitty-gritty of my personal, lived experience. This reflective piece is to rectify those omissions, giving both a factual and lived insight into a period in gay history that should never be forgotten. The recent Covid experience really drove home to me how HIV, its past, and still present history, was no longer of any consequence. Covid was being spoken about as though it is the only pandemic of recent time. It would be interesting to see where Covid sits in 40 years time. So this is my history with HIV/AIDS. It is more detailed, and more anecdotal than my previous writings…which also means it’s much longer. It is, with no strutting involved, a story of survival, but if survival is the gauge of one’s strength and tenacity, then I have come out at the end of it with flying colours, the glass half full, so to speak.

Over 40 years has passed since I sero-converted to HIV. I remember it well…I was managing a retail store in Sydney and was due to go on leave in August 1983. My last day before going off on my break was hellish. Temperature, diarhhea, extreme lethargy, disorientation…I couldn’t wait for the day to end. As it turned out…for the fortnight it went on for to end. I had only been out for 3 years…a late closet jumper…and I have to admit to being very trashy, making up for lost time as it was. I have wondered over the years, as have many, just who it was that infected me…and where! Was it that hot American boy who was staying in The Connaught in Darlinghurst, who picked me up one night just after my return from Melbourne (very likely!) or was it a Melbourne or Sydney local who had returned from a holiday in the USA, or, like me, gotten off with American boys (the flagour of the month) here. Of course, I’ll never know, but the speculation remains anyway!

Since that time, both as a writer, and as a 12-year public speaker with the Positive Speakers Bureau, I have told of my journey with HIV/AIDS. But the story has always had constraints…either in word length with articles, or time restrictions in talks. There is a lot more to the story than I tell in these…often done by rote…sessions.

I have just finished reading Cheryl Wares “HIV Survivors In Sydney – Memories Of The Epidemic”, an oral history project that I was part of, contributing a 21/2 hour interview with Cheryl when I lived in Gaythorne, Queensland in 2014. I was disappointed in the book, for as much as Cheryl wanted it to be a story of ordinary gay men surviving HIV/AIDS, and how it affected their lives both then, and now, it really came across as a voice for…and was hijacked by… HIV activists, rather than just us bar crawling gays-on-the-Golden-Milers. I was left feeling that both my contribution, and the contribution of others like me who weren’t part of the activist community was largely overlooked…again. I know it sounds like sour grapes, and mine is only one of a thousand survivor stories, but like many others I want there to be some sort of public record of many aspects of the HIV/AIDS survival story that doesn’t make it into many articles, or talks. The one thing Cheryl’s book did do was to invoke memories of so many personal experiences…and feelings…that made my personal HIV journey…MY journey.

This is not the first time I’ve contributed to interviews and photo sessions on HIV/AIDS survival, and either been left out in the cold, or had my story overshadowed by activists…or academics. But more on that as we go along. Because this is a personal transcript, I am not putting a word limit on it, so it’s going to be long. I want all this unknown or forgotten information to be in one article. It’s not a soul-cleansing, so don’t get me wrong. I see it more as an addendum to HIV history. I want it in writing before I either forget it, or confuse it in the fog of ageing. Luckily, I am a bit of a hoarder, so have copies of a lot of the things I will be referencing as the story unfolds. To make sense of it, I guess I need to go back to the beginning.

I have written a lot on my family, the dysfunctionality of my growing up, in my blog (http://timalderman.com), so I am not going to rehash already told stories here. In a nutshell, I was born in St. George Hospital, in Kogarah (NSW) on the 18th January 1954. I had one younger brother, Kevin, who was born in 1959. My childhood was pretty uneventful until I was 11, where with my mother deserting the family home, when my brother and I were at school. My father was a difficult man, trapped in a past that had long gone! Yet, he managed to find the housekeeper from hell…to this day I have no idea where he found her, though her move from the bed in the sunroom of our Sylvania home to the bed in the master bedroom occurred within a week, so I am left to wonder… entering our lives. Her persecution of my ADHD brother was relentless, and led to the death of him, at my father’s hands, in the waters below the cliff top known as The Gap. This blew my innocence all to the shit. My knowledge of “being different” at age 9, and my eventual coming out after my father’s suicide are also on my blog, so let’s move it all along.

1980 finds me in Melbourne, where I had just come out as a 26 year-old. A HIV story begins. Little did I know that both my life as a gay man, and my life as a HIV+ man were to walk the same road.

So what was it really like in 1982 to be reading snippets in our local gay press about this mysterious illness (KS, or Kaposi Sarcoma), rearing its ugly head in the gay ghetto’s of America, that seemed to be targeting gay men who frequented the saunas, and quickly killed them? Well, cynicism and disbelief to start with, and the surety that within a short period of time they would find an antibiotic to clear up yet another STD. However, the snippets were to become columns, the columns pages as the mysterious and deadly virus…originally labelled as GRID (Gay-Related Immune Deficiency (Gay plague/Gay syndrome) in 1981, it was followed by HTLV-3 in 1083…human T-lymphotrophic virus type 3…leapt from the shores of America and found its way into the gay scene here. The panic and fear began!

Our response was mixed. The first case of AIDS was reported in Sydney in October 1982 by Dr Ronald Penny. In July 1983, the first recorded Australian death from AIDS-related causes occurred in Melbourne.. The most notable death in these early days was Bobby Goldsmith (1984).We had our usual ratbags who yelled and screamed about “God’s vengeance on the evil, sick and perverted gay lifestyle”…obviously a different God to the compassionate, all-forgiving one that Christians liked to rant about…the most vocal and notable being the Rev Fred Nile MLC and his Festival of Light, and Call To Australia affiliations, the advocates of hate and intolerance who demanded quarantine for all infected persons, and those of the citizenry who either quietly or vocally wished that we would all die or just go away. Mind you, we did have our fun with them. I vividly recall one early Mardi Gras…back then, joining the parade was a very informal process…where the Festival of Light were protesting at the parades starting point. Myself and some friends, dressed in leather chaps with our bare backsides hanging out of them, deliberately stood in front of them, shaking our booty, much to their horror and disgust.

There is no watering it down…discrimination and stigmatisation was rife. It was frightening!

Thankfully, common sense eventually prevailed and both the government and the grassroots gay community combined to put both AIDS Councils and NGO programs in place. Our quick response was instrumental in Australia always being at the forefront of HIV/AIDS care. Within 2 years every state had an AIDS Council under the national umbrella of NAPWA (National Association of People with AIDS), and the formation of support organisations such as The Bobby Goldsmith Foundation (BGF), Community Support Network (CSN) PLWA (which was to become PLWHA), ActUp, and Ankali. Without these organisations life would have been grim for those infected. They provided financial, emotional and spiritual support for those who, quite suddenl found them selves with a death sentence hanging over their heads, along with the fear of unemployment and homelessness in the midst of the hysteria going on.

I digress! In 1985 testing was introduced. It was a bit of a strange affair in the early days. Due to the hysteria, discrimination, and fear of being dragged off to quarantine…a genuine fear… no one wanted their personal details on a database, so at clinics like the Albion St Centre you chose a fictitious name, and the clinic then issued you with a number that then became your ID. Mine was Peter 3080. When things cooled down, the fictitious name was dropped, and replaced with your real name. You had a blood test, and waited for two to six weeks – talk about high anxiety – to get your result. At the time of my HIV test, I already suspected that I had sero-converted and was going to come up HIV+. I was right. Counseling? Oh yeah, we had a lot of that back then. “You’ve got about 2 years to live”. Shrug shoulders “Okay”. And off we went knowing the inevitable was rapidly approaching! The initial window periods were reasonably long, but got much shorter as time progressed, and the virus mutated. That I did not get seriously ill with AIDS until 1996…though their were other factors in play…I always put down to getting infected early in the history of the virus, thus getting a much weaker mutant of the virus than what was to come. I was in a relationship at that time, and my partner came up HIV-…already the juxtaposition between positives and negatives had begun. The strange thing was that I felt no need to hide my status. I turned up at the Oxford Hotel and said to friends…oh well, I’m positive. Of course, I was far from being the only one.

Then the horror stories started! The disgusting treatment of young Eve Van Grafhorst is something for all Australians to be ashamed of. Born in 1982, she was infected with HIV via a blood transfusion. When she attempted to enrol in her Kincumber pre-school in 1985, parents threatened to withdraw their children due to the (supposed) risk of infection. The family was literally hunted out of town, and forced to leave the country and go to NZ. I will never forget the sight of this poor, frail girl on her way to the airport. I, like many others, was horrified that this could happen in Australia. Thankfully, her NZ experience was quite the opposite, and she lived a relatively normal life until her death in 1993 at 11 years of age. Her parents received a letter from Lady Di praising her courage

To be continued

Tim Alderman ©️ 2024

HIV Long Term Survivors Awareness Day Reflection

Article, Gay Interest, General Interest, HIV/AIDS, , ,

In early 1994, I had a huge 40th birthday party at the Stronghold Bar, in the basement of the Clock Hotel in Surry Hills. At the same time, I dumped the beautiful man who had been my boyfriend.

With declining health, I thought it would be my last big birthday party.. I hoped I might get another year…maybe 2. I did not want my boyfriend to be lumbered with the care of a dying man. There were others better equipped to do that. At that stage, I had no inkling that my guess would almost come to fruition, and that within those two years, HAART (Combination Therapy) would appear. It whisked me…literally…from the arms of death. Battered and bruised from my encounter with AIDS, I was thrown unceremoniously back into society.

Even at that stage I was already, along with others who walked similar though divergent paths, a long term survivor. According to the statistics, I should have departed this life around 1987. Four years would have been considered a good run, let alone thirteen! That I had survived that long…longer than most of my social circle…filled me with a strange mix of guilt, thanks, and hope. Having been given a second chance, nothing was going to be the same again! And it wasn’t!

Now at 70…way past the self-imposed 40 deadline…and as a 41-year long term survivor, the trepidation of those earlier days is way back in the dark past. Though I still get a jolt when I fully realise the implication of those two figures…70…41! It seems surreal. I did grab the opportunity, and reinvented myself…a university degree in writing, and two TAFE degrees in both cooking (chef), and fitness have positively changed my life direction.

As a long term survivor…and I wear the badge with modest pride, having beaten the odds…the other significant aspect of having been where I have, is the knowing that I have lived…and continue to…through the entirety of a pandemic. What irks me is that, as a valuable historical resource, my knowledge is overlooked, pushed into the background of history. Covid was nasty…and still is…but was treated as though it was the worst thing to happen to mankind. Yet only 40 years earlier, one of the worst pandemics of modern times had started to run its course, and over 40 million people have died as a result of it.

We have short memories!

Tim Alderman 2024.

That Crazy Weird Old HIV Guy

Article, General Interest, Health Information, HIV/AIDS, Opinion Piece, , ,

Let’s get one thing straight…I’m NOT a conspiracy theorist! I would like to think I weigh things up before coming to a conclusion. I’ve seen…and heard… a lot over the last 41 years of my life with both HIV, and AIDS! Some good, some not so good. Many will not agree with me on some, or all of these points, and that’s fine! But there are also a lot who will! There will never be a Royal Commission, not even a dissection of how HIV was handled “back in the day”. There was a thinking that drastic times called for drastic actions, and thus everything was acceptable, despite any damage it caused. I’m one of those who begs to differ, even if it makes me out to be a crackpot! Oh…and another point I need to make…yes, I AM suspicious of Big Pharma! Both their intentions, and practises!

So…why am I defending myself? Well…I have some “outside-the-square” theories/thinking on how the HIV community has been used by the drug companies over the decades. Of course, they are BIG, so have a lot of clout, and nobody ever seems to question their intentions.

I have always considered it a bit odd that there have been investigations into how Covid was handled, federally and on a state level, but nothing into the handling of the HIV pandemic. As stated already, it is almost like there was an “anything goes” attitude towards issues regarding HIV. As long as an action could be justified, it was okay!

In 2018, I had a chapter dedicated to me in the “HIV Book Project” publication of the same name. Over the decades, I have had many interviews by media, including Good Weekend, and a segment on the television series Healthy, Wealthy & Wise. Apart from a very cringy article in The Bulletin in 1987, back when we knew fuck all about HIV treatment, and survival rates, my story, as interesting as it is, as told in interviews and photographic sessions, had never been published in the mainstream media. This has always appeared to be the domain of activists, HIV “hierarchy”, and academics. So much for the voice of the HIV guy on the street!

My interview and photography session for the HIV Book Project took place in Sydney Park, with an ex, and my dog, Benji tagging along. When they decided to include me in the book, I was, to a point, surprised! My opinions were controversial, and my actions to handle my HIV drug treatments my own way must have raised many an eyebrow. After all, compliance had been rammed down our throats for over 20 years, and that someone like me dared to defy the norm was, to say the least, foolhardy! To my way of thinking, our doctors didn’t decide our medication dosing…the drug companies did!

After being on one regime or another…extending back to the days of mono therapy…for over 25 years I was greatly concerned about how these drugs must have been knocking my body around. At that time, I was on a regime of three drugs twice a day. Over a 7 year period, I had made the very personal decision to halve my regime to once a day. This effectively cut out side effects I was experiencing at that time. It also gave my body some respite from the continued battering of long-term drug dosing. To make things worse…I was also taking a drug holiday every weekend. So these views and actions were published in the book. I had never admitted to anyone that I had taken this action. Not even my doctor!

After publication, I read the other stories in the book. Comparing my story to theirs, I actually felt as though I had come across as a bit of a weirdo! Perhaps to my own detriment, what I hadn’t explained was that when I started this action, my intention had been that if by halving my dosing my viral load climbed, or my CD4 count dropped, I would resume the prescribed dosing. Yet after 7 odd years of doing this, my viral load was still undetectable, and my CD4 count continued to climb! So much for the need for compliance! I’m not advocating that everyone on HIV drug regimes should do this…but it is food for thought!

And it doesn’t stop there! I openly defied those who love to claim that AZT was beneficial, and kept the wolf from the door! This was an incredibly toxic drug! Having failed as a cancer drug due to its toxicity, it was suddenly hailed as a breakthrough drug in the treatment of HIV, despite trials such as the Concorde trial (Britain/Ireland/France) labelling it as “human rat sac”. Anyone who saw “Dallas Buyers Club” would be familiar with the disdain in which the drug was held. Its side effects…and we were dosed massively with it…were horrendous, including liver and kidney damage, peripheral neuropathy, knocked the immune system around (immune suppression), and anaemia. On a HIV forum many years ago, I posted that I personally held AZT responsible for the sudden decline in my CD4 count, and the immune suppression that brought about my run in with AIDS. I thought I would cop a slamming for expressing such an opinion, only to find in the comments that many agreed with me! Like me, many regretted taking it!

I also question…please note that word…the ethics behind the pricing of HIV drugs! At one time, the actual retail price of the drug…usually in the many hundreds of dollars…was printed on the pharmacy label. Anyone on three or four drugs would never have been able to afford to buy them every month, especially anyone on a pension. One has to wonder that, without the PBS, would the drug companies have just allowed us to die…or would we also have had to run buyers clubs!

Which brings me to resistance testing…another drug company instigated test, and one I have always been…vocally…doubtful about. Excuse my cynicism, but if a drug company is developing and pushing a particular test, there has to be something in it for them!Has anyone noticed…and I’m sure you must have…that pretty well everyone who had a drug resistance test was taken off the older drugs (despite them still working) and placed on the newer drug regimes! Logic decrees that, considering the costs of research and development, Big Pharma would prefer us all to be on the newer drugs, considering that they would have the highest financial outlay! I reckon we were really duped on this one, especially considering that currently those who are experiencing weight gain…another point worth raising…from the newer drug regimes are requesting a return to the older drugs…which at some stage they would have been told they are resistant too. Interesting, that!

So call me a weirdo, or a ratbag! To be honest, I really don’t care! For no reason has the term HIV Industry been coined! Someone is making money from it, and undoubtedly keeping the shareholders happy…and it’s not US! I would rather be called a whacko…at the least, after 41 years being HIV+…that I’ve experienced enough, indeed seen enough, to know that if you are not one of the sheep who just goes along with the flow, if you are someone who thinks for themselves with a moderate dose of cynacism, you are always going to be attacked and slammed.

I have broad shoulders. I can handle a bit of criticism.

Tim Alderman ©️ 2024

Be A Local Disability Advocate.

Article, Autobiography, General Interest, HIV/AIDS, , ,

I’m a 41 year long term survivor of HIV/AIDS. I’m severely vision-impaired from CMV, and mobility challenged from one of the early drugs designed to prolong our lives.

I used to see HIV disability as a singular issue, but ageing…I’m now 70…has turned that thinking around. No matter if you are disabled as a result of birth, accidents, stupidity, or illness such as HIV, all disabled people share one thing in common. We’re disabled! And quite often, this world is designed manufactured and built by people who aren’t. To make things worse, many think they know what disabled people need…without consulting with us!

I live in a Central Coast village. Footpaths here are a luxury. Residents usually walk on the roads, as having a sand base, the grass verges are a minefield. I’m lucky in that we have several new paths, though to use them when walking into the village adds several minutes to the journey. I also have to cross 3 busy roads. There is a pedestrian refuge on one, and a crossing on another, but the busiest middle one has no safe crossing. You not only need to watch traffic from four directions, but you have to step onto the road to see around parked vehicles. I’ve had several close calls crossing this road, and I dread crossing it!

In consultation with my local member…also disabled and in a wheelchair…we have put in a submission to council to have some sort of crossing put in there, not just for disabled people, but also to guard the safety of school kids, and the elderly using that path. Considering council is supposedly disabled-aware,they are certainly procrastinating. Safety aware indeed! Not!

Likewise the car park and entry access area of our local RSL were badly edge marked, and with a dangerous ramp to the clubs entry area. In bright sunlight, you could not see the pale yellow fluro markings at all! Coming out of the club into sunlight, I could not see the access ramp at all, and relied on friends or kindly members to get me safely to the ramp. Submissions from me and several other vision impaired people saw the whole car park remarked, and the club entryway reconfigured.

It is very empowering when you are listened to, and suggestions are acted on.,

I used to be frightened to speak up about these things, but if nothing is said, nothing changes. As disabled people, we have a right to be able to move safely around our local areas. Whether able-bodied or disabled, if you know of dangers in your local area, be an advocate and speak up. Small changes can save a life.

Tim Alderman 2024 ©️

Wrong Turns…The Person HIV Created

Article, Autobiography, Gay Interest, HIV/AIDS, , , ,

Wrong Turns

How often have you asked yourself “what the hell am I doing with my life?”. How often have you sat at work and wondered,”’why am I doing this?”. I’ve found that as I get older, it’s a question that rears its ugly head more often. You ponder the missed opportunities, the wasted time in jobs you hated; you envy those who are happily going about their chosen careers, fulfilling ambitions, doing what they enjoy.

I sometimes feel I’ve lived a life of quiet desperation. Most of my work life has been for nothing. I’ve nearly always been unhappy in my job choices…despite being very good at it…and developed the I’m-just-doing-it-for-the-pay-packet mentality. Sure, my latter years have been a lot more fulfilling, but the operative word is ‘latter’.

I wasn’t offered a lot of opportunities to select a fulfilling career. I left school at 15, in 1969, with the School Certificate under my belt and no idea what I wanted to do. According to my father and his family, I needed to get myself a “career”. By ‘career’, they meant becoming a plumber, electrician, carpenter or any of the associated trades. Considering the current sexy status attributed to tradies, I’m wondering if it may not have been a bad choice. I loved working with food and even when I was at school used to create my own recipes. However, it was the wrong time to be a foodie. My father suggested becoming a hospital cook (and tried to get me into that area), but the prospect of being stuck in a hospital kitchen for years was daunting. Let’s face it, hospitals are not prestige culinary establishments, especially in the ’70s. I begged out of it, though despite the severe lack of a restaurant culture at that time, the TAFE course may have been of benefit – at least I would have got a grounding in the basics. I had an uncle who was a pastry cook and he helped get me work experience at a bakery (Isoms) in Campsie. Now, if I hadn’t been 16 years old, if I hadn’t had to get up at five every morning and if I hadn’t had washing up and measuring ingredients as the full account of my day, maybe I would have stuck with it. Four months and I was out.

I spent the next 12 months (A) as a presser at a dry cleaning outlet and (B) doing repetitive work at a battery factory, where at the age of 16 I was getting adult wages due to the high turnover of workers, and the mind-numbing repetitiveness of the work. Not very inspiring and certainly not life choices. While in the dry cleaning job, I saw an ad in the window of a menswear store for a junior shop assistant in a high end menswear store . I got the job and…

…pretty well set my career path for the next 28 years. A quick timeline from there would read clothing, records, religious and church paraphernalia, monastery, back to religious paraphernalia, bar useful, sex shop, liquor, community work, cash office manager, data entry/doctor surgery receptionist, office work (at ASHM – the Australian Society for HIV Medicine). At least a variety. Could I really say I loved any of this? Well, it was a job.

The option of continuing education, through TAFE or university, was never presented to me early in my life. Doing anything creative was frowned upon and indeed one would have had one’s ‘inclinations’ (read sexuality) put in jeopardy by even suggesting that you might want to write, be a window dresser, hairdresser, clothes designer, interior decorator, artist or anything else creative. I was told in no uncertain terms that this was unacceptable.

This isn’t to say I didn’t do a few things that fulfilled my creative streak. I did some window dressing as part of general retail; I did quite a bit of writing, though none of it published at that time; I did some costume-making (as well as making my own drag outfits); some catering from home for a delicatessen; made my own jams and preserves (winning quite a few prizes in the process); and I was a DJ in two Darlinghurst gay pubs and bars for five years – the only job I’ve ever truly loved. Who knows, I could still become the oldest Trance DJ in Australia given the opportunity.

What other options would I have chosen for my life? In retrospect, I would love to have been an investigative journalist, in print or television. I enjoy research, and love history, and personally think I would have made a decent career out of it. I love gardening and would have made a successful landscaper or horticulturist. I love athletics and was a good high jumper, relay and short distance runner in my day. With the right encouragement before I started smoking, I would have loved that; or working on the stage; or a singing career (again we come back to smoking!) I have an intense interest in history, both local and global, which could have led in many directions. All these not to be.

What do I do now? I write! I love writing. It’s the flow of ideas; having that fledgling phrase circling in your head that just has to be put somewhere; the one word that can become an article; anger that can be released; opinions that can be controversial; comments that create debate; taking the collective consciousness of many and making it your own; pent-up frustrations released; intelligent argument put forward; comedy to induce a smile; information to be exchanged. Writing is wonderful.

Why suddenly 15 years ago did I head in this direction? And more importantly, where can it lead at this late stage? Well, HIV brought about this huge shift in my life.

As part of my self-organised repatriation after getting out of Prince Henry Hospital and surviving AIDS, I decided to take on some volunteer work to get out of the house and away from Days of Our Lives and the panic attacks I’d started having as a result of my swift and unexpected return to life. A life of clinics, counsellors and support groups was great for filling in time, but I also needed to do something that wasn’t medical. I’d started to see one of Sydney’s more eccentric doctors at that stage and felt a need to write about my experiences with her. This opened the floodgates, which haven’t closed since. I started writing about my experiences with HIV, the processes I was going through, the strategies I was using to cope, the sheer bloodiness of being HIV+ and having had AIDS, the questioning one went through and the realisation that one had to get on with it.

I think therefore I write.

I have always, even as a young kid, loved books. My compositions at school were always a bit over-the-top, much to the amusement of my teachers, and my parents were always being told I had a very fertile mind. Shame they never took this seriously.

On leaving St Gregory’s in 1969, Brother Geoffrey, who taught English, took me aside and told me I should take up a career in writing. Stupid me just let that comment drop.

In the 1980s I was a member of Acceptance Melbourne l and had quite an intense affair with the editor of their newsletter, and contributed regularly to it. I was a prolific letter writer. I edited the newsletter for the Dolphin Motor Club and was responsible for them starting a media sub-committee. I did several courses through community colleges on fiction and life writing and had two poems published overseas.

In 2001 I was accepted into the Humanities Faculty at UTS to do a degree in writing. But the first year of an undergrad degree is full of everything except writing. UTS uses authors to run tutorials, which might sound great in theory, but is just a means for them to push their own writing agendas and methodologies. As a mature-aged student, I clashed! I also didn’t feel comfortable with the often snobbish, elitist attitudes to reading and writing. The tutorial class was horrified that my favourite authors are Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Dan Brown, Michael Crichton, and Edward Rutherfurd. Well…fuck them!

By the second year, and finding yet another author being given their own tutorial, I looked to changing the degree to a Masters. At least by doing this I was just writing. The writing courses did give me the opportunity to publicly write about my drag persona Cleo and in a short story course to talk about my murdered brother, which had never been discussed with anyone. This making public some previously private parts of my life (other than HIV) was very liberating. I had at this stage done enough subjects to get my Graduate Certificate in Writing, so I took that and fled.

My university experience is not something I wish to repeat. The one thing I did learn is that it is extremely difficult to make a living out of writing in Australia. In the meantime I continued writing for Talkabout and the more I wrote, the more I wanted to write. I began to realise that all these articles had become a timeline of my journey with HIV, from the days of illness to the healing process to the return-to-work issues, from treatment issues to regaining my health, redirecting myself and finally my movement away from a life centred around HIV, and a spiritual reawakening through Buddhism. In a way, writing freed me. I took advantage of the beginnings of the Internet to do HIV site reviews and eventually my cooking column. Before leaving Talkabout after 15 years of writing articles and columns, I did a series of articles on Getting On With It, about reshaping life, ageing, and how to cope with its inherent problems.

I would love to widen the scope of my writing. For many years people have been telling me to write about my family and upbringing which was a complex, sometimes sad, sometimes happy experience. Perhaps a bit late in my life – or not – I’m thinking of getting into freelance journalism. Everything HIV that has happened to me over the last 30 years has led to this. It has presented me with new opportunities and opened doors that had previously been closed to me. I am contemplating a course for 2024 – not a cheap thing to do, so I have to consider carefully. In the meantime I will continue to write. Am I self-opinionated? I hope so. Am I controversial? I hope so. Can I see both sides of an argument? I hope so! But most importantly, do I love writing? You bet!

Tim Alderman 2023

A Long Term Survivor Diatribe

Article, HIV/AIDS, , , ,

The long-term survival journey is one where it is easy to get lost along the way. Low motivation, low self esteem, social isolation, lethargy, and a victim mentality can lead to feelings of worthlessness, seeing no value in your own existence, and survivor guilt…all my friends have died so why am I still here! It can be overwhelming.

We have already spent 30+ years of our lives popping life saving pills, thousands of pills…and still with no end in sight. Pretty well every organ in our bodies has been subjected to incredible stress. Our minds have been tested beyond belief. We have been so low that we thought there was no coming back. Lipodystrophy and lipoatrophy have ravaged and aged us early, made us unrecognisable, made us feel ashamed of our own bodies, reticent to strip in front of strangers, in front of even lovers. We have lived without immune systems, a state of inherent danger, not knowing what was going to attack you next, a world where even a cold or the flu could be deadly. We have been eroded by strange diseases, live right now with their devastating consequences. And now we live in a world where younger generations don’t understand us, don’t understand why we carry rage, why we roll our eyes at recent seroconversions, who carry on as though death was lurking around the corner. We have met death, witnessed its cruelty. You have nothing to fear!

Yet…we are here! Present! Sentient! We carry a world of knowledge that no one seems to want to know about.

So what do we do, wandering in this alien landscape? Do we bend, fold and cower…or do we BLOOM! This world is trying to put us down, humble us when we have already been humbled. But there is one thing this world doesn’t know…we are, and always have been, fighters. We make a fist and punch the shit out of it! Then we stand back and roar at it “You are not going to win!”. Our world is not what it was! Having already been deconstructed, the only choice left is…reconstruction. So we stop! Re-evaluate! Pry around our fragile edges, gouge out the positives! Rip our lives to pieces, then sew it back together again into a fabric of renewal. We re-educate, for our past is not our present! We reconnect, seek out those from our past who valued us for who we are…and take steps to make new acquaintances, find those who bring joy, laughter and value into our lives. We feed our bodies, this indestructible machine, with goodness, purity, health. We strip ourselves naked, stand proudly in the light, and rebuild our broken frames. We glare at those who put us down, and yell “FUCK YOU…if you want to learn, come to me…otherwise, bring others down with your ignorance!”. We reconnect with life! Everything is right there in front of us…you just need the hunger to grab it by the balls, and say “make me whole again!”. Don’t give it choices! Never accept no as the answer! Take it…mould it…your new, renewed life waits! Don’t waste the opportunity! Long term survivor is not three dirty words! It is empowerment! Having survived, you rise up…proud…arrogant…and step confidently into the new.

Mantra

I am here! I’m not going away!

Tim Alderman 2023

HIV Myths: Virgin Cleansing Myth

Article, Gay Interest, General Interest, Health Information, HIV/AIDS, ,

The virgin cleansing myth (also referred to as the virgin cure myth, virgin rape myth, or simply virgin myth) is the belief that having sex with a virgin girl cures a man of HIV/AIDS or other sexually transmitted diseases.

Anthropologist Suzanne Leclerc-Madlala says the myth is a potential factor in infant rape by HIV-positive men in South Africa. In addition to young girls, who are presumed to be virgins because of their age, people who are “blind, deaf, physically impaired, intellectually disabled, or who have mental-health disabilities” are sometimes raped under the erroneous presumption that individuals with disabilities are sexually inactive and therefore virgins.

History

The myth was first reported in 16th-century Europe and gained prominence in 19th-century Victorian England as a cure for syphilis and gonorrhea among other sexually transmitted diseases. The origin is unknown, but historian Hanne Blank writes that the idea may have evolved from Christian legends of virgin–martyrs, whose purity served as a form of protection in battling demons.

Prevalence

People all over the world have heard this myth, including in sub-Saharan Africa, Asia, Europe and the Americas.

A survey by the University of South Africa (UNISA) in South Africa found that 18 percent of laborers thought that having sex with a virgin cures HIV/AIDS. An earlier study in 1999 by sexual health educators in Gauteng reported that 32 percent of the survey participants believed the myth.

According to Betty Makoni of the Girl Child Network in Zimbabwe, the myth is perpetuated by traditional healers advising HIV-positive men to cure their disease by having sex with virgin girls. In Zimbabwe, some people also believe that the blood produced by raping a virgin will cleanse the infected person’s blood of the disease.

In 2002, psychologist Mike Earl-Taylor wrote that the virgin cure myth may explain the staggering rise in child or infant rapes in South Africa, which is facing an HIV/AIDS epidemic. UNICEF has attributed the rape of hundreds of girls to the virgin cleansing myth.

However, it is unknown exactly how common the myth is and to what degree rapes happen because of the belief in it. The claim that the myth drives either HIV infection or child sexual abuse in Africa is disputed by researchers Rachel Jewkes and Helen Epstein, as well as by research on convicted sex offenders in Malawi, where no evidence was found to support the idea that the virgin cleansing myth prompted any rapes.

Importance of education

Ignorance with regards to HIV and AIDS infection serves as a barrier to prevention in numerous African nations.

Education has helped women such as Betty Makoni speak out against the myth and attempt to dissuade people from believing the virgin cleansing myth.

According to UNICEF, culture-based gender roles that prize innocence and ignorance in girls and that accept sexual licentiousness in men promote this myth. Girls may be forced to marry older men, which can increase the likelihood of HIV transmission to girls. The stigma attached to AIDS also stops many people from seeking information or health services to shield their status, contributing to further transmission.

In popular culture

The virgin cleansing myth is referenced in the Broadway musical The Book of Mormon. The minor character Mattumbo is stopped from raping a baby based on the belief that sex with a virgin will cure his AIDS. During the song “Making Things Up Again”, Elder Cunningham tells Mattumbo that raping babies is against God’s will, and invents a passage in the Book of Mormon in which God tells Joseph Smith to instead have sex with a frog to cure his AIDS.

Reference

The Hidden Survivors

Article, Gay Interest, Health Information, HIV/AIDS, ,

Why people living and aging with HIV will lead the way

Tuesday, 9/18 is National HIV/AIDS and Aging Awareness Day. Long-term survivors of HIV face unique challenges; they are the “hidden” survivors of the epidemic. When I was diagnosed with HIV in 1989 I wasn’t sure I’d be here in 2018 to talk about it. At the time there was no effective treatment for people living with HIV, it

was basically a death sentence. For those of us who did have access to health care and treatment, we were given what we now know is suboptimal therapy that not only rendered us resistant to more effective medications that were being developed, but also had life-altering side effects that remain with some of us to this day. These side effects from those earlier, more toxic treatments have added to the stigma of aging with HIV and have disfigured us, made us frailer, and caused our hearts to literally skip a beat.

Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful to be here. As a white, gay, cis man living with HIV who turns 60 this year, I also recognize and acknowledge my privilege. I have access today to a one pill, once-a-day therapy that keeps my virus fully suppressed, so that I’m unable to pass on HIV to others, and I experience virtually no side effects to my current regimen. But I also know that when I walk into a room, I have “the look”—the sunken cheeks, the veiny arms and legs, the extended belly. “You should be grateful to be here,” we’ve been told, “thankful to be alive!” But to what end? Grateful to be here to suddenly be rolled off of disability after being out of work for 20–30 years, expected to join the ranks of the work force without any specialized training or support? Grateful to be here only to fall into addiction or isolation because our support networks, friends and former lovers no longer exist? Grateful to be here while there is scant culturally competent care for aging LGBTQ+ seniors who are living with HIV? We as a society in general do not value our elders—how does the LGBTQ+ community regard those of us aging, let alone aging with HIV?

There is much work to be done, but if anyone can lead the way, it’s people living with HIV and our allies. We were the ones who took care of each other back at the start of the epidemic, and we will come to the forefront of the battle once again. The lesbian community was there for many gay men back in the 1980s when we were dropping like flies and when no one else would touch us; thank heavens for these unsung heroes. Community-based organizations like TPANwere founded by people living with HIV so that we could survive and thrive. Informational resources like Positively Aware delivered the information we needed to live healthy, happy lives.

Earlier this year The Reunion Project convened a community-led, diverse coalition of survivor advocates to discuss the needs and priorities of survivors, and issued a report in June. Go to tpan.com/reunion-project for more info. As someone living with HIV for 29 years, I am excited to be part of a national network of survivors that is giving voice to those who don’t have one and who have in many respects been left behind.

Currently 50% of people living with HIV are over the age of 50, and by 2030 it will be 70 percent. But we knew this was coming. Where is the sense of urgency? Where is the crisis task force taking up our agenda? Do we matter?

I believe we do. As the saying goes, with age comes wisdom. Long-term survivors have an opportunity to come together and join forces, mentor those coming up behind us on how to age and live with HIV gracefully, and to advocate for those who have no voice. An entire generation was lost, so who now is going to step up and advocate for us?

Those of us who have survived.

Reference

Gay History: After Stonewall Clones, Closets and Codes

Article, Gay Interest, HIV/AIDS, , , ,

A work by Bill Costa, from the Leslie-Lohman collection. Registrar Branden Wallace traces the images of purity (white linen, smooth body) to the advent of AIDS and HIV. (Photo courtesy of the Leslie-Lohman Museum of Gay and Lesbian Art)

Late June’s (2019) 50th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots is making this Pride month a particularly reflective one.

But like a newly minted AARP member flipping through their high school yearbook, the modern gay rights movement’s “Big five-oh” moment brings, with its flood of memories, certain hard questions—not the least of which is: What possessed you to wear that?

“I have, fortunately, no photos publicly available of me during my ’70s platform shoes and glitter rock period,” says Joseph Hawkins, director of the ONE National Gay and Lesbian Library and Archives at the USC Libraries, who spoke with the Blade about how the things we put in our literal closet can liberate us from the figurative one (or keep us there).

“When I look at pictures of people back in the [pre-Stonewall] 1960s,” says the USC Professor of Anthropology and Gender Studies, “there was an assimilationist viewpoint, where you wanted to look like a good citizen. I think of people marching in front of the White House, where they’re dressed in their Sunday best.”

“When the consequences of being an out homosexual were damaging to one’s life and career, there had to be codes to letting people know who you were,” observes registrar Branden Wallace, of NYC’s Leslie-Lohman Museum of Gay and Lesbian Art.

Fashion, Wallace notes, “is a way to express one’s identity, specifically, for the time after Stonewall, when you had this bursting, where queer culture could actually be visible. They took their cues from things that were going on socially, and the trends in fashion, and also developed their own.”

Registrar Branden Wallace, of the Leslie-Lohman Museum of Gay and Lesbian Art. (Photo by Gonzalo Casals)

By the late ’60s, Hawkins recalls, “there was a lot of crossover [between the counterculture and gays]—ripped Hawaiian shirts, and ripped jeans. But later, that gave way that whole ‘clone’ thing, which came as a response to the term ‘sissy.’ Even within the gay community, a sissy would be ‘too’ effeminate. In the clone movement, the gay men were going to out-butch straight men.”

There was very little “humor, in these bastions of gay masculinity… seriousness and masculinity were the same thing. That opaque perspective on masculinity was also a mockery of drag queens and effeminate men. They weren’t really men,” recalled Gerald Busby, in a recent Blade article (“Of cowboy drag, cruising, and cocaine”) about the “cowboy” look he donned to make it past the doors of NYC’s Spike and Eagle’s Nest, during the early 1970s.

“It denoted seriousness of commitment to being gay and being masculine, as well as being decisive about what kind of sex you were after,” Busby noted, of the “alignment of costume and behavior… unmistakable symbols of sexual preference, such as blue or red handkerchiefs in left or right rear pockets of jeans, to indicate top or bottom.”

This exaggerated working class “clone” look, whether denim, lumberjack, or leather, Hawkins observes, was, in its own way, a “liberation ideology. Part of what allowed the sexual revolution to occur was this idea that masculinity could be a gay phenomenon. That’s what fed the ‘clone’ thing. It was a response to the idea that gay men couldn’t be masculine.”

Of his above-mentioned platform shoes ’70s look, Hawkins notes he paired it with skin-tight jeans, shoulder-length hair, and “an old saddle bag I carried. I don’t remember being ‘coded,’ though.” Working in an Office of Economic Opportunity program at the time, Hawkins recalls going on a field trip to Washington, D.C., when “a guy in my group turned to me and said, ‘Oh, girl, if you’re gonna sell that merchandize, you have to advertise.’ There were certain things you wanted to do to look gay, for people to know you were gay. You could walk down the street and catch someone’s glance. That was a different kind of coding.”

In the decades after Stonewall, Wallace notes, cloning reared a new head, and coding morphed with the mainstream, to the point of merger.

Sporting a well-groomed, muscled, manicured look and clingy shirts meant to showcase a sculpted gym body, the “Chelsea Boy” aesthetic ruled the late 1990s and early 2000s.

“I called it the ‘A-Gays,’ a standard that is unobtainable” yet desirable and pursued, Wallace recalls, also noting the Chelsea Boy look shared its time in the sun with “grunge and goth, the alternative kids who, no matter how hard they tried, could not fit in. So it’s amazing that in gay culture [of that time], you have the perfectly coiffed, and this side that just didn’t care, and was for all genders.”

There was also in this era, Wallace notes, “a drastic change in the photographic artwork. With the advent of AIDS and HIV, the art tends to go toward a smooth body, clean appearances. There’s usually white linen and water around. So artists like Herb Ritts and Bruce Weber are using these models for their purity; a perfect-looking body that is not possible.”

Nowadays, “anything goes,” Wallace says. “Beards, which you never saw in a Chelsea Boy in the 1990s, bow ties and sweater vests, and everything… I’m probably raw denim, wearing a T-shirt, got a big keychain in my pocket and a hanky and a Mohawk. That’s usually paired with a suit jacket or a jacket of some sort. You really can do anything now.”

“I don’t know why these things happen,” Hawkins admits, of trends and styles and looks that sometimes seem to defy explanation (he’s still wrapping his head around flip-flops). “Sometimes, in the middle of them, they make no sense. On the other hand, you look back and there are all these political and cultural cues. Maybe there’s an economic downturn or a wave of conservatism based on some sort of military action”—or, an event like Stonewall, which steps over lines in the sand while drawing new ones of its own. “Those things,” Hawkins says, “begin to infiltrate the way people think about fashion, and what they are going to do.”

Gerald Busby in cowboy drag, ready to cruise at the Spike and the Eagle’s Nest. (Photo by Joanna Ney)

Reference