I bought this from a library sale, knowing it for what it was (a fake) before I handed over my dollar, due to things I'd read about it online. I bought it as a curiosity.
For the most part, it's what you'd expect from a fraud exposed as an adult pretending to be a child - overly verbose, almost sagely 'wise', full of framing context that would be fine in a novel or an older person's biography but seems anachronistic in a book that is supposedly by a fourteen-year-old - and a fourteen-year-old deprived of pop culture for the majority of his life, at that. There is very little substance at all. There are a lot of words, strung one after the other, but compared to other child memoirs I've read, the feel is all wrong. The book is a series of essays, but instead of defining moments, they're retrospectives on his entire relationships with people. It's not a style that makes much sense for a book that is supposed to focus on the intersection between HIV/AIDS and child abuse and sell based on that. Instead, the book revolves around the myth of Anthony, the phantom child, whose abuse is never detailed, whose adoption is somehow processed in the tiny amount of time between calling the authorities and his release from hospital, and who somehow immediately bonds with his new family despite a lifetime without any human kindness. It's a confection of lies to feed one woman's conceit. And the shame of it is, some of the things said in the latter half were sorely needed at the time: a plea to shift from blame to unconditional care and treatment for all people living with HIV/AIDS, a heartfelt urging to stop blaming gay men for paedophila, and a need for the end of the myth and deification of the 'innocent' AIDS patient. I have no doubt these arguments were cribbed and regurgitated wholesale from the writings of other people - Paul Monette's book is mentioned several times - but it's the only section of the book that reads genuinely, not like fiction. In that moment, it's not a fraud, but a child (not real, but his words could be spoken by any of the actual kids living with HIV/AIDS in the early nineties) sitting on that barely contained impotent fury that characterised much of the activism of the time - we're here, we're dying, while you try and decide which of us deserves to live and which 'earned' this sickness. It's a moment of truth in a pack of lies, even if it is only a reflection of someone else's pain.