It was a search for one photograph by Nicholas Nixon, that I’ve long been fond of, that prompted me to request People with AIDS through an inter-library loan. I found the image. But suddenly I had the entire project, of which it was part, in my hands: an elegant book composed of photographs and stories of 15 persons with AIDS in the 1980s. It seemed to beckon me to spend time with it.
When I think to the emergence of AIDS in that decade, I remember the many difficult issues that the disease forced American society to confront: sexuality, drug use, and an ill-prepared health care system. I also think to the parts of our humanity—compassion, dignity, and love— that were put to the test as otherwise healthy people fell to the ravages of this disease; a time when simply touching a person with AIDS was too often an act of courage rather than instinct.
Nixon’s project, combined with his wife Bebe’s illuminating text, brings us straight into the homes of men and women in the final stages of AIDS. With sensitive honesty, Nixon turned his camera to the very places and bodies our society feared most. Their images reveal the disillusionment of young lives suddenly shortened, and also their acceptance. Their words tell us of the emotional strain of the disease, of maintaining the barest semblance of dignity in the face of an undeniable vulnerability. Common to all in the book is the role of family, especially parents, in supporting their loved ones. For some, already-strong family bonds were leveraged in the presence of AIDS, but not because of it. Others’ families rose to the call, and this new-found love was stronger than any had anticipated. But some were marginalized from their families, left to find needed support in friends or even strangers.
I was particularly moved by a letter written to God by a father as he worked to identify with his dying son’s homosexuality—a truly Franciscan moment of seeking to understand, rather than be understood. That we might all find the wisdom to experience each other in this manner.