My entire life has been an involuntary boot camp into the way I must appear to everyone but especially white people, even when they aren’t present. I know I’m not alone. Before going outside to play, I was told not to come in “smelling like the outside”. If I came in with dirty clothing, I was scolded and punished.

I’m haunted by the memories of entering bright grocery stores and being policed. Of folks first looking at my body, its height, its knees and elbows and then my face. I remember the way my body moved, what fear scents it emitted and how it was supposed to say something about the people who raised me.

And now, as a Black Queer woman living with HIV I’m transported back to that time when I’m asked the question “Are you clean?”. That naked fear never quite leaves you, you know?

I shouldn’t have to even write this essay but I am because this shit is real and it’s harmful. Implying HIV+ people are not “clean” is not only serophobic – it’s anti-Black as fuck. And anyone participating in this conversation is guilty as hell. 

June 12^th, 2017 was my thirty first birthday. On that day I received the news that I’d tested positive for HIV and I spent it in the hospital, listening to treatment plans. When the physicians explained that I may face discrimination, I laughed and told them that racism had already prepared me for all forms of discrimination, including what I was going to face with HIV. They were confused but I meant it.

And then I faced discrimination head on in the Black community and it hurt. It hurt more than I thought it would.

I’m not surprised when white people exhibit classism, discrimination and gatekeeping. One of the foundations of white supremacy and anti-Blackness is the belief that white folks are tasked with cleaning up our communities. The social and political systems that uphold anti-blackness intentionally racialized terms like dirty, disease ridden and ignorant for our communities. They then used these categories to justify our subjugation, uplift their religious superiority and provide opportunities for profit.

LGBTQIAA spaces and dating apps are no different. The rampant fatphobic and anti-poor sentiments coupled with common statements like “No Blacks” mirror what Black folks experienced forty years ago. Though we were also dying from HIV/AIDS in the 1980s, the epidemic was packaged as a white issue, which meant that Black folks didn’t (and still don’t) receive the same level of medication, attention and care. Patriarchal white supremacy used HIV/AIDS as an opportunity to commit genocide without rebuff. And while white supremacists used anti-LGBTQ propaganda in an attempt to eradicate homosexuality in the past, cisgender white gay men ally with their racist kinfolks to protect whiteness now.

HIV/AIDS has always been weaponized to demonize those seen as a direct threat: Black, trans, gender and sexual non-conforming people. And the combination of serophobia and classism works to end Black lives.

The face of serophobia, the discriminatory prejudice against HIV+ people, is Black. If you google HIV/ AIDS, the demographic shown is overwhelmingly Black even though human beings of all ages, gender, race, class and ability are impacted. Black folks are disproportionately impacted by HIV transmission, especially when they are poor.

Though we are not the only ones facing the spread of HIV/ AIDS, we are criminalized and judged for it. We face romantic exclusion, microaggressions, institutional maltreatment and isolation once our status is revealed. According to a 2009 study by the San Francisco Department of Public Health, “black MSM (men who have sex with men) were reported as the least preferred as sexual partners, believed at higher risk for HIV, counted less often among friends, were considered hardest to meet, and perceived as less welcome at the common venues that cater to gay men by other MSM”.

When I shared my status, a cis Black gay man in my community spoke of it as a mark of irresponsibility and poison. A former friend, whom I nurtured with my heart and food, insisted that HIV+ people should be grateful to him for being “the only friend willing to accept them”. And though the majority of Black chosen kin in my life are supportive of my status, at one point their love was overshadowed by the few folks in my life who thought I should be grateful for receiving the bare minimum.

The discrimination we experience contribute to the consistency and conditions in which we harm each other. And though my first experience with HIV-related maltreatment wasn’t from one of my doctors, the truth is that so many of our community members have been.

The privileges of affording medical care, having access to clean showers and receiving a sustainable income are lost to most of us. We are more than twice as likely to be houseless than our cisgender, heterosexual peers and the venues we inhabit, (if we have the financial and social access to enter them) reinforce these class distinctions.

As a Black queer trans woman, I am uniquely impacted by the effects of anti-Blackness and transphobia. My daily fear is that these intersections will set off a fast sequence of events that pushes me into the streets. Our society is deeply invested in cis-ness, beauty, passing and thinness and contributes to the reasons that 50% of Black trans folks are sexually assaulted in our lifetime. We are dying at the cost of everyone else.

In July of this year, I organized a gofundme to help me relocate to a supportive environment. Unfortunately, transphobia also exists in the fundraising sphere and forced me to use my deadname to access the coins I was sent. This phenomenon is not new, trans and HIV positive folks have been re-traumatized by the abuse inflicted by their environments to access all types of care. The care that we receive is often emblematic of larger issues including how we perceive and engage in intra-communal harm, support and connection.

The person who raped me struggled with poverty, racism, and HIV-based discrimination. When he raped me I was afraid, isolated and suicidal. I thought I’d never have community again but here I am, a living to the ways community can completely transform a person and their commitments. I’m holding both truths: no one deserves the harm I experienced and the anxiety and isolation that folks experience when faced with HIV related discrimination can turn you into a monster. For us, HIV-based discrimination is just as present as our experiences with racism and transphobia.

Before the stigma drove me to kill myself, I began reading articles and testimonies online by folks living with the virus that gave me hope. When I was first diagnosed, I was without support systems in place. All I had were doctors that made sure I took my medications and knew I could be a risk to others. And at one point, I was – but, the lower the viral load (and greater other numbers), the less the risk of transmitting the virus to others.

The reason I’m adamant about our reliance on concepts of clean and dirty now is because they’ve impacted the way I move in the world. They’ve impacted the ways I’ve contributed to assessing worth based on status and transmission risk. They’ve impacted those I love. And they’ve supported me in being honest about the ways I’ve perpetuated harm.

When I became HIV Undetectable with risk of transmission being zero, I initially celebrated and clung to being clean after being considered dirty for years. However, once I began to dig deeper into what that can mean for me and other folks in our community, I realized we deserve love and access to intimacy regardless of our viral load. We deserve to live in a world that does not harm us by asking that question.

There weren’t folks with whom I felt I could share my status with at first. But after reading testimonials and connecting with folks on and offline, I realized that what was missing was community. I think that when we begin to open up about harm, cleanliness, criminalization and stigma, we get better at loving each other. And when we listen, we build up sustainable, community driven responses to diagnoses and harm.

I no longer celebrate my Undetectable status because only 50% of us are receiving effective treatment. And “Are you clean” does not address health concerns about sexually transmitted infections – it feeds it.

“Are you clean” is an attack on my transness, my Blackness, and my HIV status. I’m both asking and requiring all Black folks, regardless of age, class, ability and gender to be active supporters of those in our community living with the virus.

Building a world where we all live starts with normalizing mature conversations about status and testing. Here are three supportive and non-judgmental questions you can ask before engaging sexually:

1. When were you last tested?
2. What were you tested for?
3. What were your results?

Once the conversation is over, you can thank the person for sharing.

I have the HIV virus and I am clean. The virus has not made me dirty. I deserve love, care and attention just like everyone else.

Jamila Dawn Mitchell is a community development professional with a history of creating and supporting organizations focused on healthcare, neighborhood improvements, as well as Black political movements in Milwaukee, WI. Using her own intersectional privileges, she uses storytelling and culturally-relevant education to work with her current organization as a program director to mobilize marginalized people to become the present future of leadership to create the systemic changes Black queer people need.

 

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