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Chapter Eight

Oregon Pioneers

[Portland, Oregon, March 1994]

It was bold. It was daring. It had never been done before.

At the beginning of my second month with CAP, Steve spelled out the challenge at a prevention team meeting: Gay men in Portland were not showing up to test for HIV at the public health sites. “The county wants us to get more guys to test,” he said. Since the county’s grant paid a big chunk of the agency’s prevention budget, we understood this “request” was to be taken seriously.

“It’s not going to happen,” said Chad. “We’re not going to convince guys to go into the health department and get tested.”

“Chad’s right,” Lionel said. “They don’t trust the health department. It’s government.”

“But, my God,” exclaimed Steve, “half the nurses there are gay men!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Chad said. “It’s an image problem.”

Steve tossed the memo into the center of the table. “Well, they’re building it into our contract, so we better find a way to deliver. The feds are pressuring the state, the state’s pressuring the county, and the county’s pressuring us.”

“Great, so what do we do?” said Chad. “Go home and yell at our dog?”

“I didn’t know you had a dog,” said Lionel.

“Shut up, will you? It’s like a metaphor or something.”

“No, this is important,” Steve said. “We need to know how the epidemic is playing out here in Oregon. We’ve only got anecdotal information and the numbers of those who’ve already advanced to full-blown AIDS. And guys need to know their status so they don’t infect their brothers.” Brothers. That was Steve-talk. Coming from anyone else, it might sound corny or phony, but in Steve’s world we were all brothers. Personally, I didn’t believe the fractious political groups making up the so-called gay so-called community were brothers, but I appreciated that he did.

There were five of us on the prevention team. Each member had specific responsibilities. Chad, a psychology major at Portland State University, coordinated the men’s discussion groups. Puppy dog cute, he was one of those people who exudes sexuality. He had introduced himself to me as the “Prevention Team slut.” Like Steve, he was HIV-positive but, unlike Steve, had begun to show symptoms and was now taking eighty-plus pills a day. Nonetheless, he didn’t let that slow him down from being the poster boy for safer sex (“I give lots of demonstrations”), emphasizing that one can be HIV-positive and still have a fulfilling sex life. “Very fulfilling,” Lionel always added. African American, six foot two, of which 98 percent was muscle, Lionel coordinated the bar outreach program. Andie was the program assistant(“the token woman,” she called herself). Super organized, she kept the team on task and timelines. Still in her early twenties and pretty, she was forever falling in and out of love. “I’m in love with Chad,” she confided to me when we first met.

“Chad? Isn’t he— ”

“Yeah. All the men I fall in love with are gay.”

“Have you considered maybe expanding your social circle?”

And then there was Leo. Like me, he was new to the team. Twenty years old, he was an extremely handsome— beautiful some would say— Mexican American developing an outreach program to the street kids, having been one himself not long ago. He had straightened out his life over the past two years and was now attending Portland Community College. I’d been told he had some connection to Sandy.

“Okay,” said Steve, “let’s brainstorm ideas on to how to get guys to test. Remember, this is brainstorming. Say the first thing that comes to your mind. No idea is too dumb or too outrageous.” Andie went to the whiteboard to write down the ideas.

Lionel raised his hand. “We could offer a free blow job with each test.”

Steve stared at him. “Now that’s a dumb idea. Any serious ideas?”

Lionel mumbled, “It was the first thing that came to my mind.”

Without their hearts in it, the team began tossing out ideas.

“We could pass out coupons so guys can test for free,” Leo offered.

“They’ve tried that,” said Steve. “It’s not a money issue. It’s a trust issue.”

Lionel tried again. “How about with every test, you get a free pass to the baths.”

“Isn’t that kind of like handing out matches and gasoline to prevent fires?” said Chad.

“Is that another metaphor?”

“So what’s your idea?” Steve asked Chad.

He thought. “Maybe you get a coupon for a free drink at Silverado with each test. The owner there supports our work.”

“Oh, sure,” said Andie. “Ply them with alcohol and further dull their powers of judgment.”

“Okay, okay,” said Steve. “More ideas.”

“Steve, face it,” said Chad. “It’s not going to work. No one wants to go to the health department where they have to admit they’re gay or may have had unsafe sex.”

Lionel agreed. “Being tested by the health department is like getting a physical exam from your mom.”

The team was collectively squirming at the thought when it suddenly came to me.

“So, we’ll do it.”

The others looked at me.

“Do what?”

“We’ll test gay men.”

“What do you mean?” asked Steve.

“We develop and train a team of volunteers, all gay men, and offer HIV counseling and testing here once a week in the evening. We’ll devise some ID system so guys can test anonymously. We’ll keep their names, and the health department gets the test results.”

“Neat idea,” said Chad, “but the county’ll never allow nonprofessionals to do the testing.”

“If they want test results badly enough, they might. Especially if they can oversee the testing.”

Steve was intrigued. “You might have something. Do you know any precedent for this? Anywhere testing is being done by volunteers? Bureaucrats love precedents.”

“I could do a lit search when I’m at school tomorrow,” offered Chad.

“Or maybe we pitch it differently,” I said. “We will be the precedent.”

“Yeah, like a pilot,” said Leo.

Andie jumped in. “We’d be pioneers. This is Oregon. Pioneers are part of our history.”

“What ‘our’ history?” said Lionel. “You’re from Ohio.”

The team became excited. It was an innovative concept— even daring for its time— to train and equip the target population to test their own people. We would provide a safe space for gay men where the counseling and testing would be done by their own “brothers.” Steve immediately left to call and propose the idea to the county’s HIV Program manager.

• • •

He came back to us the following day. I was right: bureaucrats are by nature timid. They don’t like to take risks. But they were also desperate to produce the results the feds wanted. And with his natural enthusiasm and Boy Scout wholesomeness, Steve was the perfect person to pitch the idea. If he believed in something, he could convince anyone. And he believed in this idea.

“They want to try it. They’ll build it into our contract and provide extra funding. We’ve got one year to show results. They’ve assigned their head epidemiologist to work with us. Arthur’s a gay man himself, and he supports the idea. He’ll handle the technical aspects of the training and the phlebotomy— ”

“The what?” asked Lionel.

“Blood draws. They’ll assign a phlebotomist to us who will also be a gay man. Our job is to recruit, screen and train a team of volunteers to handle the counseling part. They want this program up and running by Pride Weekend.”

Chad whistled. “That’s only three months from now.”

Steve turned to me. “I want you to coordinate this program. It was your idea.”

“I’ll get started immediately.”

But where to start? All I knew about HIV testing was from the wrong end of a needle. The next day I met with the epidemiologist to piece together how such a program could work. Arthur reminded me of a Swiss watchmaker: slightly stooped, pleasantly plump with a pink complexion, a walrus moustache, and gentle sleepy eyes. Though only in his mid-forties, he was already bald with a curly fringe of blond-white hair. Next, I placed an announcement in the newspaper, describing the project and calling for volunteers. Within two days forty men had applied, and we set up interviews for the following week. I decided we’d select twelve candidates so that, allowing for dropouts, we would end up with a team of ten. Those not selected could be held in reserve for the next training and a second team. I’d design the counseling curriculum and, along with Arthur, oversee the ten-week training.

Steve pulled me aside. “This is big. It’s not just the county. The state and feds are watching how it goes, too. Andie’s right: We’re going to be pioneers!”

• • •

Arthur and Steve joined me for the interviews the next week. Because of the tight timeline, we would conduct group interviews, roughly eight candidates each night. It would also give us an idea how they’d work in a team as they interacted with the other candidates and answered a series of questions: Why do you want to volunteer for this program? What experience have you had with HIV? Have you been tested?

Not surprising, a large number of helping professions were represented: gay men who were teachers, nurses, social workers, counselors. We could have staffed the team with only nurses, which Arthur favored. But Steve and I wanted the program to reflect the diversity of the gay community, with counselors who were African American, Latino and Asian, as well as the different “types” of gay men. “I want counselors guys can identify with,” Steve was saying as we watched the first group of candidates gather in the lobby, “from the super butch to the flaming queen.”

It was at that moment the elevator doors opened and Lukas flamed in. “Bonjour, everyone!” he announced with outspread arms. All heads turned. “I have arrived!” He was one of those people who doesn’t enter a room so much as invades it, bringing his own band, fanfare and spotlight with him. Mid-twenties, slender to the point of being skinny, dressed in slacks and a neon pink satin shirt, he was already going around greeting men there, half of whom he seemed to know.

I turned back to Steve. “I think we just filled the Flaming Queen slot.”

We began the interviews. I asked each applicant to introduce himself. Lukas immediately launched forth. He was a walking stereotype, worked in a fashionable hair salon on Broadway and performed as a drag queen at Darcelle’s on the weekends. (“Many of you know me as Lady Bianca.”) Reviewing Lukas’s application, Arthur asked, “You list ‘medical’ under interests. Do you have medical experience?”

“Well, I just adore ER. I’ve seen every episode twice!” The group chuckled.

“So, you’re interested in medicine?”

“No, I’m interested in the hunky doctors.” Arthur stared at him as the others guffawed.

Steve said, “A number of gay men are deaf, and we need to do a better job of reaching out to them. Lukas, I see on your application that you sign.”

“Some. Enough for basic communication.”

“How basic?”

“Well, I know,” flurry of fingers, “Do you come here often?” and, flurry of fingers, “Take me home with you.’” Steve stared at him, much like Arthur had. “I also know the alphabet.”

“Well, it’s a start,” said Steve.

One hundred eighty degrees from Lukas was John, a retired Air Force colonel in his late fifties. Sitting ramrod straight in his chair, he introduced himself by declaring that he wasn’t gay. So why was he here? He wanted to volunteer, wanted to offer what he could, because he had a gay son living in Los Angeles. It was his way of supporting his son. He looked uncomfortable as he spoke. How would guys coming in to test feel with him? I listened politely as he responded to our questions, but had already scratched him off the list.

Many of the candidates had lost friends or lovers to AIDS; all wanted to make a difference, to do something; perhaps they could keep others from becoming infected.

At the end of the evening, after the candidates left, the three of us discussed them and what each might bring to the program. Arthur had reservations about Lukas. “I’m not sure he has the right professional attitude for this.”

“I understand what you’re saying,” I said, “but it may help to have a social butterfly on the team.”

“Social butterfly? He’s an entire swarm.”

“And we may need some comic relief,” said Steve. Arthur reluctantly assented. In the months ahead, Lukas would be the glue holding our team together, the court jester willing to play the fool, bringing wit and humor to work that would have its grim moments.

I had two concerns among that first evening’s candidates. Tyler was a sophomore at Portland State University, a sweet-faced kid, eager as a pup, and it couldn’t have been more obvious if he wore a sign around his neck: VIRGIN. “He’s only nineteen. I think he’s too young for this.”

“Leo’s only twenty,” said Steve.

“Steve, there’s no comparison. Leo was living on the streets when he was fifteen. Tyler comes from Lake Oswego, for god sake. And just look at him. He’s going to get hit on by every guy who comes in here.”

Steve was philosophical. “The kid’s going to have to grow up sooner or later. And it’s better he learns to say no here than in the bars. Besides, if we want to draw young guys to test, we should have young guys on the team.” Arthur agreed.

My second concern was John. “I’m not sure about our retired colonel. I wonder whether he can remain neutral and nonjudgmental.”

Arthur shared my concern, but Steve said, “I’d like to give him a chance.”

“Are you sure? I think guys won’t feel comfortable with him. And him with them. I advise against bringing him on.”

“It’s your program and your team, but I’d ask you to give him a try. You’ll have ten weeks of training to see if he’s appropriate or not. And he may wash out anyway.”

“Why do you want him?”

“I think it would be good to have an older man on the team. And he kind of reminds me of my dad. I know how hard it would be for my father to do something like this. I’d like to think someone would give my dad a chance.”

Arthur gave me a nod-shrug. It was against my better judgment, but like the rest of the prevention team, if Steve asked me to march into Hell with him, I’d only want to know what I should pack. “Okay. We’ll see how he does.”

He flashed his boyish grin. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

By the end of the week, we had interviewed all the candidates and selected nine to start the training— joined by Chad, Leo, and Lionel from the prevention staff, who Steve wanted to be involved— so we had our twelve. Now the work to shape them into a team would begin.