Elise Blasingame
They are banners more than anything. Usually the colors are primary; the edging in glitter. Photos from the 80s, superimposed over t-shirts and corporate logos. It’s funny how much people take in their occupations as identity; it becomes who they are. “Arby’s Accountant.”
“I miss you Joey” “Andrew: The Wind Beneath our Wings” “Stacy, may you always be remembered” Some seem unfinished. “This quilt was made by her sorority, Gamma Kappa Sig, 1997” You get the feeling they knew nothing about her, since the only piece of information on the quilt is, “here is anna and her three daughters,” represented by tulips in pastels.
Tacky, really.
I remember the second time I thought I might have AIDS. I was dating my first real, fucked up, this is everything, boyfriend (I choose to say ‘partner’ now when describing my boo, but really, this guy was never a partner, he was a boyfriend). It was our freshman year. We had already had sex about 5 times. I remember it was 5, because he wrote a poem about it (the aids scare, not the number of times we had sex). After the 5th time, I had suggested we get tested. I have the best of intentions, but I’ve always been really bad about testing. I tell everyone about the virtues of tests, but mine always come after I’ve already increased my risk.
Anyway, right before Thanksgiving when the snow was starting to fall, but it wasn’t quite cold enough for it to stick, we decided to get tested. His results came back inconclusive. Then they got lost. I remember he was dead set that some 30 year old woman had given him aids in high school. He was a lifeguard, and her son swam at his pool. It was once, but they didn’t use a condom.
When the clinic lost his records, he demanded that we drive to the county testing site to make sure.The rapid test is 80% effective. It came back negative.
“Too soon. Peter and John, Forever.”
The first time I thought I had AIDS was when my uncle lived with us. He has been HIV positive for years. He drinks like a fish and people often wonder how he has avoided transitioning into AIDS. Sometimes he will call my mother and point out her flaws, both imagined and well accepted. I used his razor a few times to shave my legs, and cut myself each time. “What if he cut his face, and the blood was on the razor, and then I cut my legs, and the blood got into my blood?” I never used it after the second time. I was terrified. I didn’t know what AIDS meant, but I could feel how solemn people became when they discussed it.
“You’ll always be my baby, love Edy”
It was World Aids Day on Thursday. To celebrate the living; to remember the dead.
I stood in the museum hallway, staring at banners from families and friends. It looked like some high school art show. I cried enough to make my throat hurt, but not enough to make anyone notice.
“Carla, your father loves you, 2001”
Banners, quilts, tshirts, blankets, signs, memories. Sitting in the museum hallway, posted on black walls. Waiting for people to remember them. Tucked away in the temporary gallery. No one goes upstairs anymore.
I had been to the gallery months ago for a book club meeting. The Burchfield-Penney Book Club. They had finished reading City On The Edge, by Mark Goldman. This was in the height of my Buffalo history fixation. It’s not completely gone, but it was much more ferocious then. I sat at a board room table surrounded by docents in their 60s, blue-haired ladies from the second wave of feminism. We never talked about the book. They fought each other for airtime, and spoke about former politicians and crooks of queen city.
Spaces transform based on the occupants. I try to keep that in mind, so I don’t become attached.
“angela, your love transcends time, 2011”
Impractical Cartography 