Aids In Black America Essay

In the time it takes to read this article, someone in the United States will contract HIV and, according to recent statistics, there's a 50 percent chance he or she will be black.

HIV/AIDS is a health crisis that has long since reached epidemic proportions, yet many say racial disparities among those affected by the disease have garnered too little attention.

"The story of HIV in black America is about the private consequences of the politics of race," filmmaker Renata Simone says. Her work on the subject spans some 20 years, from the first national series on HIV in 1989, "The AIDS Quarterly with Peter Jennings," to an edition of the PBS network's "Frontline" called "ENDGAME: AIDS in Black America," airing Tuesday night.

Simone's latest endeavor shines a light on how exactly the virus has spread and the ways in which it has "exploited our inability to deal with our problems around race," she says. The film asks, with so much information about HIV and so many years of safe-sex messages being passed on, how can anyone still be uninformed about the disease?

Several minutes into the film we meet Nel, a 63-year-old California retiree and mother of 5 children, 17 grandchildren, and 5 great grandchildren. Nel's is a heart-wrenching story about finding love in the church, only to marry and find out that her husband, a deacon, had knowingly infected her with HIV.

The film asserts institutional factors are largely to blame for AIDS' devastating effects among blacks -- for example, in prisons, where experts say HIV is being transmitted and carried back to the community by those on parole -- and it focuses largely on the community through which Nel ultimately contracted the disease: the church.

"I think that for a lot of churches, and being a pastor myself, we’ve missed the mark," one Atlanta pastor says in the film. "It’s really difficult for a lot of the older pastors. The political fallout is too much for them to become involved with HIV/AIDS and some of the techniques that we use," he says, techniques like a local needle exchange, or, in some places, conducting HIV tests during church services.

In Houston, Rev. Timothy Sloan went as far as taking a test of his own, in conjunction with the NAACP unveiling its own signature HIV-prevention program at its annual conference this week. For the "Day of Unity," as it's being called, faith leaders were asked to preach about HIV as a social justice issue and to carry out the program's mission through use of a training manual designed specifically to help pastors better confront the disease.

The Day of Unity program is long way from when former NAACP chairman Julian Bond was at the helm. "Was it on my radar? I don’t really know if it was something that I felt I didn’t want to get engaged in, or what the reason was," he says of the AIDS crisis in Simone's film. "I feel badly about myself. It’s a bad reflection on me that I didn’t take a more leading role than I did. I could have; I should have. I was in a position of responsibility. I could have done it, and I didn’t.”

Amid the ongoing institutional divides are the personal stories Simone uses to punctuate the film. From teenage rap duo Tom and Keith, who call themselves “Bornies,” children born with the virus in the early 1990s who have survived after their mothers died; to Jesse, who had to hide his sexuality because of homophobia in his church, community and family; to Jovanté, a high school football player who didn’t realize what HIV meant until it was too late.

And it includes perhaps the most famous HIV patient of all, Magic Johnson, who reiterates that despite critical steps to toward eliminating the disease, he has to take the same care as everyone else.

"ENDGAME: AIDS in Black America," airs Tuesday, July 10 at 9 P.M. ET on PBS (check local listings). On Wednesday, July 11 at 2 P.M. EST, HuffPost Black Voices will join producer/writer/director Renata Simone, Black AIDS Institute President Phill Wilson, and Marsha Martin, Director of the Urban Coalition for HIV/AIDS Prevention Services for a live chat about the film. Please join us and submit any questions you have in the comments section below.

My colleagues and I marched in the Kingdom Day Parade last month, and toward the end of the route, a group of 10-15 men and women began heckling us. “All Black people don’t have AIDS,” they said, referring to the Black AIDS Institute banner we were marching behind. “You need to take that sign down. It offends us.”

We tried to explain we were raising awareness to help prevent the spread of HIV within the black community, but our efforts were not exactly effective.

Today is National Black HIV/AIDS Awareness Day. Many believe the AIDS epidemic is over, in part because HIV does not get the media attention it used to. But nothing could be further from the truth, especially for black Americans.

Black communities disproportionately bear the brunt of the HIV/AIDS epidemic in America. Almost half of all new HIV diagnoses in the U.S. in 2016 occurred within the black community alone, and in the year prior, black Americans accounted for 52 percent of HIV/AIDS-related deaths in our country. These numbers are alarming on their own but carry additional weight when considering black Americans make up only about 12 percent of the total U.S. population. And when looking at the black LGBTQ community specifically, the results are even more grim: The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention predicts black gay and bisexual men in the U.S. have a 1 in 2 chance of HIV infection over the course of their lifetime.

These statistics ― and the parade hecklers ― prove comprehensive HIV/AIDS awareness is as needed today as it was back in 1999 during the first-ever National Black HIV/AIDS Awareness Day. All black people don’t have AIDS, and all people with AIDS are not black; however, AIDS in America is absolutely a black disease.

HIV/AIDS is a critical part of any discussion about black survival.

The question of whether we can end the overall AIDS epidemic in the U.S. has been asked and answered; we have the diagnostic, surveillance, treatment and biomedical prevention tools necessary to eradicate our country of this disease. The real question is whether we have the political and moral will to use these tools effectively, humanely and in an inclusive manner. We cannot end the HIV/AIDS epidemic in America if we don’t address the unique ways this disease affects the black community. National Black HIV/AIDS Awareness Day takes place during Black History Month for a reason. It is a reminder to black people that, as Martin Luther King Jr. said, “Of all the forms of inequality, injustice in health is the most shocking and inhuman.”

Our current administration attacks LGBTQ people, black people, immigrants and those living with HIV/AIDS. It would be a mistake to separate out these attacks; racism, homophobia, transphobia, sexism, classism and HIV/AIDS are inextricably connected. Similarly, AIDS in black communities does not happen in a vacuum separate from the many social determinants of health, and efforts to end the HIV/AIDS epidemic in America absent of a social justice lens are destined to fail. As King said, “In a real sense, all life is inter-related ... Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.”

This year’s National Black HIV/AIDS Awareness Day is especially bittersweet for me, because I recently announced I am soon stepping down as the Black AIDS Institute’s president and CEO, where I’ve had the privilege of serving for the last 19 years. When I started doing this work in 1983, I couldn’t have imagined this mysterious new disease, first identified at UCLA Medical Center, would become the defining health issue of my generation. I’ve been fighting the AIDS epidemic nearly my entire adult life.

HIV/AIDS is a critical part of any discussion about black survival. If black lives really matter, the lives of black people living with HIV/AIDS ― and those at risk for HIV infection ― must matter, as well. HIV/AIDS activists must learn to appreciate and understand the intersectionality of this disease. Though we’ve made progress on overall infection and death rates, HIV/AIDS continues to disproportionately affect black Americans.

As I contemplate my last National HIV/AIDS Awareness Day in my current post and think about what the next act of my life will include, I wonder what we’ll say when future generations ask (and they will ask), “What did you do to fight the AIDS epidemic?”  

We cannot let the answer be, “Not enough.”

Phill Wilson has been president and CEO of the Black AIDS Institute for 19 years. He recently announced his plans to retire.

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