A Name Too Many: When Ego Tries to Rebrand History
When a sitting president flirts with renaming the Kennedy Center, the issue is not branding or humor. It is a revealing glimpse into ego, insecurity, and a dangerous urge to overwrite history itself.https://jtwb7689.wordpress.com/2025/12/26/kennedy-cntr-renaming/
Dr. Seuss, the Original King of Holiday Trash Talk
Theodor Seuss Geisel wrote some of the most successful children’s books in human history. Six hundred to seven hundred million copies sold worldwide. That is not “popular.” That is cultural domination. The Cat in the Hat and Green Eggs and Ham alone could fund several small countries. Dr. Seuss was not just an author. He was a publishing juggernaut with a felt hat.
There is no debate here. The man was a genius.
But after sitting down yesterday and listening, really listening, to “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch,” something else became painfully clear.
Dr. Seuss was an elite-level trash talker.
Not casual shade. Not playground insults. This was precision-engineered verbal annihilation wrapped in rhyme and handed to children with a smile. The song, written for the 1966 animated special How the Grinch Stole Christmas!, is a masterclass in lyrical character assassination. Add Albert Hague’s music and Thurl Ravenscroft’s bass voice, and suddenly you are not hearing a song. You are witnessing a public execution conducted by a baritone.
Seuss could have called the Grinch rude. Or unpleasant. Or a real jerk. Instead, he chose violence.
Verse one does not ease into it. There is no warm-up.
“You’re a mean one, Mister Grinch
You really are a heel
You’re as cuddly as a cactus
You’re as charming as an eel
You’re a bad banana with a greasy, black peel.”
A bad banana. Not overripe. Not bruised. Greasy. Black. That banana has been through things and none of them were good. This is less an insult and more a warning label.
At this point, the Grinch could have filed a complaint with Human Resources. Seuss was just getting started.
Verse two escalates immediately.
“Your heart’s an empty hole
Your brain is full of spiders
You’ve got garlic in your soul
I would not touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot pole.”
Thirty-nine and a half feet. Not ten. Not twenty. This is a man who measured his revulsion and still felt the need to add a half-foot for safety. That is not dislike. That is disgust with a tape measure.
Verse three introduces comparative suffering.
“You have all the tender sweetness
Of a seasick crocodile
Given a choice between the two of you
I would take the seasick crocodile.”
Seasick crocodiles are presumably violent, confused, and vomiting. And yet, somehow preferable. Imagine being told that a nauseated apex predator with motion sickness has better vibes than you.
Verse four is where Seuss starts stacking insults like a Yelp review written by someone who waited forty-five minutes for cold fries.
“Your heart is full of unwashed socks
Your soul is full of gunk
The three words that best describe you are
‘Stink. Stank. Stunk.’”
That is a one-star review with no explanation needed. Unwashed socks are a choice. Gunk is a lifestyle. “Stink, stank, stunk” is not feedback. It is a verdict.
Verse five abandons restraint entirely.
“You’re the king of sinful sots
Your heart’s a dead tomato
Splotched with moldy purple spots
Your soul is an appalling dump heap
Overflowing with the most disgraceful assortment
Of deplorable rubbish imaginable
Mangled up in tangled up knots.”
King of sinful sots. That is not even trying to be polite. Dead tomato with moldy purple spots is not an image anyone asked for, yet here we are. And then the dump heap. Overflowing. Mangled. Tangled. This is not an insult. This is an environmental hazard report.
By verse six, Seuss is clearly enjoying himself.
“You nauseate me with a nauseous super ‘naus’
You’re a three-decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich
With arsenic sauce.”
Arsenic sauce. Not implied. Explicit. This is no longer metaphorical disdain. This is culinary homicide.
And the thing is, this song was written for children.
Dr. Seuss did not just insult the Grinch. He dismantled him. Methodically. Cheerfully. In rhyme. Set to music. Sung by a voice that sounds like it could crush a Buick.
No writer living or dead has ever eviscerated a fictional character with this much creativity and joy while still being invited into every living room every December.
Dr. Seuss was not just a storyteller.
He was a savage with a dictionary.
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THE THREAD THAT REFUSES TO BREAK: A PERSONAL HISTORY OF WORLD AIDS DAY AND THE YEAR IT CUTS A LITTLE DEEPER
There are moments in history that do not simply arrive; they accumulate. They gather weight, memoryand meaning until they become more than dates on a calendar. World AIDS Day is one of those moments. It is a day that carries an entire era on its shoulders: the grief of the early epidemic, the rage of activists who refused to stay silent, the breakthroughs that turned despair into possibility, and the ongoing struggle to protect dignity in a world where stigma never fully disappears. World AIDS Day is woven from millions of individual stories, yet it remains a single, unified symbol of remembrance and resistance. It has existed for more than forty years, and every one of those years has been shaped by triumph, loss, misinformation, activism, science, bigotry, hope, and the relentless determination of communities who learned quickly that no one was coming to save them unless they saved each other.
When I write about World AIDS Day now, in 2025, I find myself reflecting not only on the global arc of the epidemic but on the personal threads that tie me to this day in ways I once did not expect. I did not grow up thinking I would one day speak about HIV, AIDS, stigma, or loss. I did not imagine sitting in clinics as volunteers comforted frightened clients. I did not imagine dancing at the Red Ribbon Ball beside survivors who once planned their funerals because they believed they had run out of time. I did not imagine being part of events organized by The Project or ICARE, or standing in community spaces where education, testing, music, grief, and joy intersected all at once. But life has a way of pulling you into the spaces you need to understand. And understanding the meaning of World AIDS Day has reshaped the way I move through the world.
This year feels heavier. More fragile. More electric. The political backdrop is different. The public silence is louder. The absence of federal recognition under the Trump administration intensified the emotional weight of the day. It is one thing to carry grief. It is another to have your government tell you that your grief is inconvenient. When a president cancels federal observance of World AIDS Day, he is not simply removing a symbolic gesture. He is pulling at the threads of remembrance, hoping the whole tapestry unravels. But communities like ours do not unravel. We hold tight.
This post explores the history of World AIDS Day—the decades of activism and pain and triumph that shaped it—and examines why observance matters not just for people living with HIV, but for everyone. I want to explore the psychosocial grooves this day carves into communities, how it strengthens resilience, disrupts stigma, and expands understanding. I want to include space for readers to explore related posts on The Babblings of JT, because the story of HIV is far too large to fit in one narrative (See: HIV Stigma and the Stories We Carry, jtwb768.com [placeholder]). And most importantly, I want to explain why World AIDS Day 2025 lands so personally for me—why the absence of acknowledgment feels like a reopened wound.
This is not just history. It is testimony. And it is an insistence that remembrance cannot be erased
THE ORIGIN: HOW WORLD AIDS DAY BEGAN AND WHY IT MATTERED FROM DAY ONE
World AIDS Day was first observed on December 1, 1988, at a time when the AIDS epidemic was no longer new but still carried immense fear and stigma. The disease had already taken hundreds of thousands of lives worldwide. Families were grieving in private because public mourning often led to judgment. Medical providers were still learning how to treat the virus. Entire communities—especially gay men, trans women, sex workers, people who inject drugs, and people living in poverty—were fighting not only a deadly virus but a world that blamed them for their suffering.
The origins of World AIDS Day grew from two essential needs: awareness and acknowledgment. Dr. Thomas Netter and Dr. James Bunn, public information officers for the World Health Organization’s Global Programme on AIDS, recognized that the world lacked both. They proposed a day dedicated to raising awareness, encouraging testing and education, and creating a space for public recognition of the epidemic’s human toll (UNAIDS, 2024). World AIDS Day became the first international health day in history.
But globally, the observance took root because communities insisted on it. In the United States, activists from ACT UP, GMHC, community organizers, health educators, and families who had buried too many loved ones pushed continually for visibility. Public pressure forced political leaders to acknowledge the reality of the epidemic, even when those leaders resisted. In 1988, President Reagan issued his first public speech on AIDS—years after thousands had already died and after countless activists had demanded attention. World AIDS Day emerged from that culture of forced recognition. It was created because silence had become lethal.
The earliest observances were somber. They were marked by candlelight vigils, quilt displays, reading of names, marches, church services, and public education campaigns. But they were also defiant. They asserted that people living with HIV were not going to disappear quietly. That their lives deserved visibility. That death from AIDS was not inevitable. That activism could change policy. That science needed funding. And that humanity required compassion.
The power of World AIDS Day rested in its dual nature: it honored the dead while demanding accountability from the living. It confronted stigma head-on by placing grief in public view. It reminded the world that epidemics are shaped not only by viruses but by inequity, policy, and prejudice (Shilts, 1987). And it told people living with HIV that they were not alone. For individuals whose families had rejected them, for communities ravaged by loss, for partners barred from hospital rooms, the observance became a place to breathe—to be seen.
For more than forty years, World AIDS Day has continued to evolve. It has grown into a global phenomenon observed in more than 100 countries. It has been recognized by presidents, prime ministers, public health agencies, the United Nations, churches, universities, and community centers. But at its core, it remains what it always was: a day of remembrance, resistance, education, and connection.
It is a day built from the human need to honor those who shaped us.
And that is why attempts to erase it matter so deeply.
THE IMPACT: WHY WORLD AIDS DAY STILL MATTERS—FOR PEOPLE WITH HIV AND FOR THOSE WITHOUT
It is easy for people untouched by the epidemic to assume that World AIDS Day is largely symbolic—a day about the past rather than the present. That assumption could not be further from the truth. The observance continues to play a vital role in saving lives, improving public understanding, encouraging testing, reducing stigma, and reminding policymakers that public health responsibilities cannot be abandoned. Its impact extends far beyond people who live with HIV.
For people with HIV, World AIDS Day provides validation, visibility, and collective strength. Living with HIV, even in 2025, involves navigating stigma that persists in ways both subtle and overt. Stigma influences whether someone seeks testing, whether they disclose their status, whether they access care consistently, whether they feel safe in relationships, and whether they experience shame or acceptance (CDC, 2024). On World AIDS Day, people with HIV see themselves reflected in public dialogue. They watch global leaders acknowledge their lives. They gather at events where they are not alone in their stories. It becomes a day where their experiences are centralized, honored, and protected.
For people without HIV, the observance provides education, empathy, and responsibility. It teaches the public that HIV is not a relic of the past. It explains that prevention tools exist—PrEP, PEP, condoms, harm reduction, U=U—and that access to these tools is deeply shaped by inequities in race, class, geography, and sexuality. It shows communities that HIV is not a disease of “others,” but a public health issue affecting millions. The day prompts conversations that people might otherwise avoid. It encourages testing among individuals who may not realize they are at risk. It combats misinformation that still circulates decades after it should have disappeared.
For policymakers, World AIDS Day serves as an accountability marker. Budgets, legislation, funding for research, support for community groups, access to medications, and public health infrastructure are all shaped by political will. The observance reminds leaders that the epidemic is ongoing, that lives are still at stake, and that abandoning support is not an option. Historical data shows that educational campaigns increase around World AIDS Day, awareness spikes, and engagement with testing and treatment services rises (KFF, 2023). The day’s influence is measurable.
For communities, World AIDS Day strengthens connection, healing, and psychosocial resilience. It provides a communal space to grieve, celebrate, organize, and support one another. It holds both joy and sorrow. The emotional impact is transformative. In towns like Davenport, Des Moines, or Iowa City, community events create safe environments where people can speak openly about their experiences, educate each other, and feel part of something larger than themselves.
World AIDS Day matters because epidemics are not shaped only by biology—they are shaped by the collective will to care.
THE PSYCHOSOCIAL GROOVE: HOW WORLD AIDS DAY SHAPES COMMUNITY IDENTITY AND RESILIENCE
Every community has rituals—moments that give shape to its emotional landscape and create shared meaning. In the HIV community, World AIDS Day is one of the most powerful of these rituals. It is not just a day; it is a psychosocial groove carved into the heart of collective memory. It creates structure around grief, celebration, advocacy, and connection. It gives people a place to put feelings that otherwise go unspoken. And it reminds communities that healing does not occur in isolation; it grows from connection, from remembrance, and from a shared understanding that the past informs the present.
World AIDS Day gives people permission to feel. In a society where many still speak about HIV in hushed tones, the observance creates a moment where grief is public, where stories are shared openly, and where people living with HIV are surrounded rather than isolated. It transforms loneliness into solidarity. When someone attends a candlelight vigil, or sees quilt panels displayed, or listens to names being read aloud, they recognize that they are part of something larger than their personal journey. That recognition is psychologically grounding. Humans need belonging. They need context. They need space where vulnerability is met with acceptance rather than avoidance. World AIDS Day supplies that space.
For caregivers, case managers, clinicians, outreach workers, and volunteers, the day becomes a moment of collective reflection. These individuals carry stories that often remain unspoken—stories of clients who fell through cracks in the system, patients who arrived too late, families fractured by stigma, and survivors who persevered. The observance validates their emotional labor. It gives them an opportunity to recalibrate, to remember why the work matters, and to honor those they helped along the way. It reinforces the idea that compassion is not expendable. In this sense, World AIDS Day nurtures the internal emotional infrastructure of caregiving professions that are often stretched to their limits.
Communities build identity through shared memory. The HIV community’s identity is forged through decades of activism, survival, and mutual support. World AIDS Day strengthens that identity by reminding people of their collective roots. It brings together individuals who might otherwise never cross paths: survivors from the eighties and nineties, newly diagnosed young adults, public health experts, faith leaders, drag performers, shelter staff, outreach teams, harm-reduction workers, and family members who lost someone they loved. Where else do these worlds intersect so naturally? The day creates a tapestry from threads that might not weave together on any ordinary afternoon.
That tapestry does not just represent remembrance; it symbolizes hope. For people newly diagnosed, seeing others speak openly about their experiences can dismantle fear and shame. For young LGBTQIA+ people, the observance connects them to a lineage of resilience. For immigrants and refugees navigating a new country, the day offers cultural grounding in communal care. For people in recovery, it links harm reduction to dignity. World AIDS Day shapes the psychosocial experience of entire communities, reminding them that they are not defined by stigma or isolation but by resistance, connection, and the will to survive.
And then there is the role of organizations like The Project and ICARE. Their events carve deep emotional grooves because they are built from trust. When people walk into a testing event hosted by ICARE, they feel the presence of care rather than surveillance. When they attend a remembrance ceremony organized by The Project, they see their grief reflected back at them in compassionate ways. When they experience the Red Ribbon Ball for the first time, they see what it means to celebrate the living while honoring the dead. These events shape the emotional foundation of Iowa’s HIV community in ways numbers cannot measure.
World AIDS Day becomes a mirror, a meeting place, a container for emotion, and a reminder that no community survives without its rituals. And in 2025, that ritual has taken on an even sharper edge.
A THREAD THAT REACHES INTO THE PRESENT: WHY WORLD AIDS DAY 2025 FEELS SO PERSONAL THIS YEAR
Every year, World AIDS Day is personal to someone. This year, it is personal to me in ways I did not expect. 2025 has been a year of political assaults, public health neglect, and increasingly hostile rhetoric aimed at the communities most affected by HIV. When the Trump administration announced that federal agencies would not observe World AIDS Day, something in me cracked open. I expected frustration, but what I felt was a deeper, heavier kind of hurt—a sense of erasure that lingered in my chest like smoke from a fire still burning. That hurt slowly sharpened into resolve.
I have spent years immersed in community work that directly touches the lives shaped by HIV. At The Project, I watched clients walk through doors terrified about what their lives might look like after testing. I have seen case managers sit with people for hours, explaining everything from lab results to medication options to housing applications. I have watched people cry from relief because someone finally spoke to them without judgment. At ICARE, I witnessed the courage of individuals who approached testing tables in public spaces, their palms sweating as they tried to act casual while their entire world felt uncertain. I have watched volunteers give warmth and dignity to strangers whose fear was palpable.
At the Red Ribbon Ball, I felt the emotional gravity of the community. There is nothing quite like standing in a room full of survivors while music fills the air and people hold each other through laughter and tears. The event is part fundraiser, part homecoming, part memorial, and part celebration of continued existence. It reveals the fullness of the HIV community’s humanity in a way no textbook ever could.
These experiences shaped my identity, not only as a writer but as a person who believes deeply in dignity, remembrance, and human connection. So when the federal government withdrew recognition of World AIDS Day, the message felt personal. It said, “The work you do does not matter. The community you stand beside is inconvenient. The grief you have borne is not worth public acknowledgment.”
But I know better.
And the community knows better.
World AIDS Day 2025 feels personal because the political indifference is impossible to separate from the lived experiences I have witnessed. I think of the young man who walked around the block six times before deciding to get tested at an ICARE event. I think of the survivor who attended the Red Ribbon Ball for the first time in twenty years because he finally felt safe enough to be in a room with others who carried similar memories. I think of the countless stories told quietly in clinic rooms, in waiting areas, in support groups, and in living rooms. These stories deserve acknowledgment.
This year also feels personal because the political climate has intensified stigma rather than alleviated it. HIV stigma thrives when leadership is silent. It thrives when education is suppressed. It thrives when people feel unprotected. And when the President cancels an observance that has existed for more than four decades, it tells the world that stigma has permission to grow again. That kind of silence is violent.
And beyond all of that, this year feels personal because I have grown older. I have seen how communities change over time. I know what it means for collective memory to weaken if it is not nurtured. I understand the urgency of keeping stories alive. I have watched too many people forget the devastating early years of the epidemic—a forgetfulness that breeds misunderstanding. When I see younger generations understand HIV only in passing, without the context of activism, suffering, and resilience that shaped the movement, I feel a responsibility to write more, share more, and remember more.
World AIDS Day 2025 lands differently because the thread connecting past and present feels more fragile than ever. And that fragility fuels my resolve to keep pulling that thread forward rather than letting it break
THE NATIONAL BLIND SPOT: HOW WORLD AIDS DAY FILLS A VOID THAT STILL EXISTS IN 2025
One of the most striking realities about HIV in the United States is how deeply it still intersects with silence. Even with decades of scientific advancements, educational campaigns, and public advocacy, the social understanding of HIV remains shallow for many. Too many people believe HIV is “not a problem anymore.” Too many assume the epidemic is a relic of the past. Too many imagine that medication alone solves everything, forgetting the layers of stigma, trauma, discrimination, and systemic inequality that shape the lived experiences of people with HIV today.
This national blind spot is not accidental. It is the product of years of underreporting, political discomfort, weak sex education curricula, and the declining visibility of HIV in mainstream media. Younger generations may not have witnessed the funerals, protests, and devastating losses of the eighties and nineties. Middle-aged adults may assume they already “know enough” about HIV from what they heard thirty years ago. Older adults who lived through the terror of those early years may carry memories so painful they avoid speaking about them at all.
World AIDS Day interrupts that silence. It does what few national observances can: it forces a confrontation with reality, both past and present. It centers the experiences of people with HIV in the public consciousness. It compels people who know little about the epidemic to pause, listen, learn, and acknowledge. It provides a structured moment for education at a scale that individual organizations could never achieve alone.
Without World AIDS Day, the national conversation about HIV becomes scattered, inconsistent, and too easily overshadowed by political noise or public exhaustion. The observance concentrates attention—something crucial in a media environment where attention is currency. It reminds the country that HIV is still disproportionately affecting Black, Latino, Indigenous, LGBTQIA+, disabled, and low-income communities (CDC, 2024). It reminds the public that access to PrEP, PEP, antiretroviral therapy, and culturally competent care remains unequal. It reminds policymakers that funding must be maintained, expanded, and directed intentionally based on data, not ideology.
National awareness campaigns launched around World AIDS Day routinely reach millions. Hospitals prepare educational materials. Schools incorporate lessons. News outlets run interviews with public health experts. Community groups hold panels, marches, vigils, and events. Social media becomes saturated with messages about prevention, stigma reduction, and remembrance. The observance gives advocates a platform to reach people who might otherwise remain unaware, uninterested, or uninformed.
It also fills gaps in sexual health education that remain shockingly wide. Many states still lack comprehensive sex education requirements. Many curricula still ignore or misrepresent LGBTQIA+ health. Many schools avoid discussing HIV altogether unless forced. World AIDS Day helps mitigate this harm by creating public-facing education that reaches students, parents, teachers, and communities who would not otherwise encounter accurate information.
This national blind spot widens when federal leadership disengages from the observance. The cancellation of World AIDS Day 2025 by the Trump administration did not merely remove a ceremonial statement; it reinforced the dangerous misconception that HIV is no longer a national issue. It told millions of people living with HIV that their lives do not warrant recognition. It told communities still fighting the epidemic that their work exists in a vacuum. It gave permission for stigma to deepen. It gave ignorance fertile soil.
That is why communities must compensate for the absence of federal leadership by amplifying remembrance on their own terms. As long as HIV continues to exist—and as long as stigma continues to shape human lives—World AIDS Day will remain essential.
THE THREAD OF MEMORY: HOW WORLD AIDS DAY PROMOTES HEALING AND INTERRUPTS STIGMA
HIV stigma has always been one of the deadliest forces shaping the epidemic. It influences whether people access care, whether they disclose their status, whether they trust medical providers, and whether they believe they deserve support in the first place. Stigma can fracture family relationships, isolate individuals socially, deepen depression or anxiety, and lead to dangerous delays in testing or treatment (UNAIDS, 2024). The silence surrounding HIV often causes more harm than the virus itself.
World AIDS Day disrupts that silence. It creates a moment in time where stigma loses some of its power because the world turns its eyes toward truth instead of myth. It invites people to reflect on their assumptions. It pushes conversations into public spaces where they cannot be easily ignored. It creates language around experiences that many might otherwise struggle to name.
For people living with HIV, stigma can manifest in ways both large and small. It is the awkward silence after someone reveals their status. It is the shift in facial expression. It is the friend who suddenly becomes distant. It is the family member who insists on barriers or refuses physical affection. It is the coworker who whispers instead of asking questions. It is the dating prospect who vanishes after learning the truth. It is the lingering internalized shame that grows from these encounters.
World AIDS Day helps counter this by validating the experience of people with HIV. It provides public affirmation that their lives are worthy of respect, support, and dignity. It offers opportunities for storytelling, which is one of the most powerful tools in combating stigma. When people hear stories—raw, human, honest—they begin to understand HIV as something deeply personal rather than abstract. They see faces, families, relationships, and futures rather than stereotypes or fear.
Storytelling also shifts the internal narrative for people living with HIV. Many people struggle to speak openly about their status, even with professionals. Shame is a heavy burden. But storytelling in the context of World AIDS Day creates a shared environment where shame loses its grip. When someone hears their experience echoed through another person’s story, they realize their struggle is not isolation but connection.
I have seen this firsthand. During remembrance events, people who have remained silent for years sometimes speak for the first time. They share memories, gratitude, and grief. They reveal moments from their past they have never said aloud. For some, these stories carry decades of weight. For others, the emotions are fresh. Whether the speaker is newly diagnosed or a survivor of the early epidemic, their stories matter. And the act of sharing them can be profoundly healing.
The observance also gives families permission to remember loved ones without fear of judgment. In the early years, many families suffered in silence. Some refused to acknowledge the cause of death because of societal stigma. Some held funerals without mentioning the truth. Some never spoke their loved one’s name again. World AIDS Day gives those families a chance to reclaim memory. It tells them that remembrance is not shameful—it is sacred.
Stigma weakens when communities remember together. And memory grows stronger when communities reclaim it publicly. World AIDS Day does both.
THE THREAD OF ADVOCACY: HOW WORLD AIDS DAY CONTINUES TO SHAPE POLICY AND PUBLIC HEALTH
Activism has always been the heart of the HIV movement. Without activism, HIV treatments would not have been developed as quickly as they were. Without activism, discriminatory policies would have remained intact. Without activism, the government would have continued ignoring a crisis that was killing thousands. World AIDS Day emerged from that activism—not as a passive memorial, but as a strategic moment to push for change.
In 2025, advocacy remains as crucial as ever. The epidemic has not disappeared, and neither have the structural barriers that shape it. In some ways, the landscape is even more complex now. Politicians have become bolder in attacking LGBTQIA+ communities, transgender health care, harm reduction, and sexual health education. Public health budgets remain vulnerable to partisan cuts. Misinformation spreads quickly online, fueled by polarized media ecosystems. And the cancellation of World AIDS Day at the federal level signals a troubling shift in political willingness to engage with truth.
World AIDS Day amplifies advocacy by creating a unified moment when public attention is focused on HIV. This matters for several reasons.
First, visibility influences funding. Legislators are more responsive when they perceive a strong, vocal constituency. When advocates mobilize on World AIDS Day—through marches, events, campaigns, or meetings with elected officials—they apply pressure during a moment of heightened visibility.
Second, the observance supports policy literacy. Many people do not understand how laws affect HIV care. They may not realize that Ryan White funding, Medicaid expansion, or housing programs shape the ability of people with HIV to survive. World AIDS Day offers a platform for educating the public about policy, connecting individual experiences with systemic forces.
Third, advocacy grounded in remembrance carries moral urgency. Policymakers may be indifferent to statistics, but stories move them. When survivors speak about losing half their friend group in the eighties, or when young people describe struggling to access culturally competent providers, the narrative becomes harder to ignore. World AIDS Day provides the emotional framework for advocacy that data alone cannot provide.
Fourth, the observance supports global cooperation. HIV does not recognize borders. Advocacy related to PEPFAR, WHO initiatives, and international health cooperation gains strength when tied to a global day of awareness. When nations reaffirm their commitments on December first, they solidify partnerships that strengthen public health systems worldwide (PEPFAR, 2024).
Advocacy thrives on unity, visibility, and momentum. World AIDS Day generates all three!
PART 4 OF 4
(No lines between sections. Narrative headings. Conclusion included. APA-style references at end.)
THE PERSONAL THREAD THAT TIES IT ALL TOGETHER: WORLD AIDS DAY AS A LIVING LEGACY
When I think about World AIDS Day as a whole—its history, its purpose, its emotional weight—I realize that it operates as a kind of living legacy. It is not something frozen in time. It evolves, adapts, reshapes itself, and gathers new meaning every year. For people who lived through the darkest chapters of the epidemic, it is a moment to honor those who never had the chance to witness today’s advancements. For younger generations, it is a doorway into a history they did not experience firsthand but inherit nonetheless. For communities like mine in Iowa—where stigma still lingers in quiet corners, where access and understanding differ wildly from place to place—World AIDS Day grounds us in shared purpose.
This legacy matters even more in 2025 because the silence coming from federal leadership forces communities to confront a hard truth: remembrance cannot depend on institutions that are unwilling to honor it. The cancellation of the federal observance by the Trump administration has pushed communities to step up even more, to speak even louder, to organize even more intentionally, because the absence of national acknowledgment leaves a void that memory must fill. It is a sobering reminder that progress is not secure. Rights are not permanent. Memory is not guaranteed.
World AIDS Day becomes an act of safeguarding. It protects the stories that would otherwise be lost. It preserves the emotional truth of the epidemic. It sustains the networks of care that people have built across decades. It reinforces the idea that remembrance is not passive—it is active, deliberate, and necessary.
This is why the day feels so personal to me this year. I am watching how easily a single political decision can threaten to unravel decades of acknowledgment. I am watching how quickly silence can try to reclaim space that activists fought like hell to open. I am watching how communities must fight both the virus and the narratives that seek to erase its impact. And I am reminded that remembrance is not just about looking backward—it is about protecting the present and shaping the future.
World AIDS Day is not only for people who lost friends, partners, lovers, or chosen family—though it certainly belongs to them. It is not only for people who live with HIV—though it certainly uplifts them. It is not only for activists, volunteers, community organizations, or clinicians—though they carry the day with astonishing grace.
World AIDS Day belongs to everyone who believes that truth matters. That dignity matters. That lives matter. That silence must never again dominate the conversation about HIV. And that remembrance is a collective responsibility.
It belongs to all of us because the epidemic reshaped the world we live in. It reshaped laws, communities, families, science, activism, culture, and public health. To ignore it is to ignore a chapter of human history that continues to influence the present.
In the absence of federal recognition, the responsibility falls to us—to writers, advocates, community members, and anyone who refuses to let memory die. Every time a story is told, every time a name is spoken, every time a candle is lit, every time a quilt panel is displayed, and every time an article like this is shared, World AIDS Day endures.
And as long as it endures, we remain connected to the people who came before us, to the people who walk beside us, and to the people who will come after us. Remembrance becomes a form of love—a love that refuses erasure, that refuses silence, that refuses to let history be rewritten.
This year, that love feels urgent. And necessary. And deeply, unshakably personal.
CONCLUSION: THE REFUSAL TO FORGET
World AIDS Day was born from activism, grief, and the refusal to let stigma define human lives. It continues to matter because the epidemic continues to shape communities, identities, policies, and personal histories. It lifts the stories of those who have lived through unimaginable loss and honors the resilience that continues to save lives. It creates connection where isolation once thrived. It replaces silence with truth. It transforms grief into action, memory into movement, and history into a tool for liberation.
In 2025, World AIDS Day carries a new layer of meaning. The decision by the Trump administration to cancel federal observance stripped away institutional acknowledgment, but it could not strip away remembrance. It could not silence community voices. It could not erase decades of activism. And it could not diminish the personal importance of this day for those of us who understand how fragile memory becomes when institutions choose convenience over truth.
This observance remains an anchor for public health, an engine for advocacy, a container for grief, a celebration of survival, and a reminder of the collective responsibility we hold toward one another. It shapes psychosocial resilience in ways few events can. It heals, educates, mobilizes, and unites.
As readers of The Babblings of JT, I invite you to explore other reflections on stigma, resilience, and the ongoing fight for dignity (See: The Weight of Silence: How Stigma Hurts More Than Truth, jtwb768.com [placeholder]). I invite you to read the essays that delve deeper into the intersections of identity, public health, and community care (See: Breaking Stigma Through Storytelling, jtwb768.com [placeholder]). And I invite you to carry forward the remembrance that institutions failed to uphold this year.
Memory persists because we choose to hold it.
World AIDS Day persists because we refuse to forget.
REFERENCES
Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. (2024). HIV surveillance report.
KFF. (2023). HIV funding trends.
PEPFAR. (2024). Annual program results.
Shilts, R. (1987). And the Band Played On.
UNAIDS. (2024). World AIDS Day history and impact report.
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The Straight Obsession: Why Some Gay Men Chase What They Cannot Have
The chase for the so-called “straight guy” has long been a fascination in gay culture—part fantasy, part heartbreak, and part danger. For some, it is about desire; for others, it is about validation, power, or secrecy. But behind the thrill of the forbidden lies a cycle that can reinforce shame, fuel stereotypes, and leave one always in the shadows of another man’s denial. This post unpacks why gay men are drawn to straight men, how media and hookup culture fuel the obsession, and why true intimacy may require turning away from the unavailable and toward those who can fully see and love us in the daylight.
When “Straight” Isn’t So Straight: Understanding Why Some Men Have Sex with Men
Not all men who sleep with men identify as gay or even bisexual—and that’s not a contradiction.
The Passing of a Literary Giant: Remembering Edmund White and His Unmatched Legacy in LGBTQ+ History
Edmund White, one of the most revered gay authors of the 20th and 21st centuries, died in June 2025 at the age of 85. His death marks not only the end of a literary epoch, but also the fading of a generation of LGBTQ+ pioneers who lived, wrote, and loved out loud—despite the cultural gags placed on their identities. White’s presence in queer literature was seismic. For over five decades, he chronicled the complexities of gay identity with unflinching honesty and elegant prose, pushing open the closet doors that constrained generations before him. To write about Edmund White is to pay homage to a man who gave voice to silences too long endured.
For LGBTQ+ writers, thinkers, and readers, Edmund White was not merely an author. He was a cartographer of identity, mapping out the landscapes of queer desire, shame, tenderness, and joy in a society that was often determined to erase them. His words remain stitched into the fabric of queer history. Today, as we mourn his passing, we also celebrate a body of work that reshaped literature and society alike.
A Life Lived in Truth: Early Years and Formative Struggles
Born in Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1940, Edmund White’s journey began in the conservative midwestern United States—a region historically inhospitable to queer existence. His parents divorced when he was seven, a rupture that deeply influenced his understanding of family and identity. His early years were shaped by dislocation, internalized shame, and a dawning sense of otherness. By his own account, White always knew he was gay, but spent his adolescence mired in confusion and secrecy.
After studying at the University of Michigan, White moved to New York in the 1960s—a city that, even then, pulsed with queer undercurrents. It was there that he began to find his voice. The era was not kind to gay men: homosexuality was criminalized, demonized, and pathologized. And yet, White refused invisibility. “To be openly gay in the 1960s,” he later wrote, “was to be both radical and reckless.” But White’s bravery was not performative; it was existential. He wrote gay lives into literary legitimacy long before it was safe to do so.
His debut novel, Forgetting Elena (1973), received critical praise for its stylistic inventiveness and oblique social commentary. But it was his second novel, Nocturnes for the King of Naples (1978), that signaled the emergence of a bold new gay literary voice. With its lyrical style and focus on a doomed gay love affair, the book became an emotional blueprint for a generation of queer men searching for meaning in a world that offered them little hope. White had found his calling—not merely to tell stories, but to ensure those stories centered the truth of gay experience.
The Defining Work: “A Boy’s Own Story” and the Semi-Autobiographical Canon
In 1982, White published A Boy’s Own Story, the first volume of what would become a semi-autobiographical trilogy (continued in The Beautiful Room is Empty and The Farewell Symphony). The book was revolutionary, portraying a young gay boy growing up in 1950s America—navigating desire, repression, and eventual self-acceptance. At the time, most literary depictions of gay life were veiled, tragic, or caricatured. White’s novel, by contrast, was a vivid and introspective coming-of-age tale, balancing erotic realism with profound psychological depth.
The protagonist’s experiences mirrored White’s own: sexual awakenings, fraught parental relationships, therapy aimed at “curing” homosexuality, and an endless hunger for validation and connection. But the novel was not merely confessional. It elevated the gay bildungsroman to high literary art. Critics and readers alike recognized its significance—not only for its candid portrayal of gay adolescence, but for its refusal to apologize for it.
As White continued the trilogy, he deepened his commitment to chronicling the personal and political evolution of gay men in America. The Beautiful Room is Empty (1988) offered a glimpse into pre-Stonewall New York, while The Farewell Symphony (1997) tackled the AIDS crisis and its decimation of a generation. Each book is a standalone achievement, but together they form one of the most powerful queer autobiographical arcs in literature.
Chronicler of Queer History: Biographies, Essays, and Cultural Critique
While White is best remembered for his novels, his nonfiction contributions are equally consequential. He wrote several acclaimed biographies, including Genet: A Biography (1993), about the French writer and political radical Jean Genet, and Marcel Proust: A Life (1999), which explored the closeted complexities of one of literature’s greatest minds. These works offered more than literary analysis; they recontextualized queerness in the pantheon of Western thought, insisting that homosexuality was not a footnote in history—it was central to it.
White’s essays, published widely in The New Yorker, The New York Times, and other major outlets, dissected everything from gay culture to continental philosophy. In his 2009 memoir City Boy, he painted a vivid portrait of gay intellectual life in pre-AIDS New York. He was a founding member of the Gay Men’s Health Crisis (GMHC) in 1982—one of the first organizations in the U.S. to address the AIDS epidemic. White did not merely observe history; he lived and shaped it.
His 2006 collection, My Lives, offered autobiographical essays so brutally honest that some critics called them scandalous. But to readers familiar with the cost of invisibility, they were sacred: chronicles of survival, desire, and unapologetic self-exposure. He once said, “I wrote about my life not because it was extraordinary, but because I believed every gay life had a right to be known.”
Mentorship, Academia, and the Passing of the Torch
Later in life, White became a mentor to countless emerging queer writers. He taught creative writing at Princeton University and continued to publish well into his 80s. He received the PEN/Saul Bellow Award for Achievement in American Fiction in 2018 and the Lambda Literary Pioneer Award in 2019. These accolades were not merely for longevity—they were recognition of his transformative impact on literature, identity, and cultural consciousness.
White’s teaching style was reportedly generous, if exacting. He encouraged students to be vulnerable, to write toward their wounds, and to stop censoring themselves for the comfort of straight audiences. He often spoke about the need for queer writers to claim their cultural lineage and avoid diluting their narratives to meet market demands. “Authenticity,” he said, “is the most radical form of craft.”
He also supported global LGBTQ+ rights, attending events around the world and using his platform to highlight injustices from Russia to Uganda. While White was not an activist in the traditional sense, his work made activism possible. He expanded the canon to include those who had long been erased or dismissed.
The Legacy Lives On: Why Edmund White Still Matters
White’s passing invites us to reflect on the legacy he leaves behind. In an age where queer visibility is both more prominent and increasingly under threat, White’s work serves as a reminder that progress is never linear and that storytelling is one of the most potent weapons against erasure.
His influence can be seen in the works of contemporary queer authors like Garth Greenwell, Ocean Vuong, Brandon Taylor, and Alexander Chee—all of whom have acknowledged the path he paved. Even as queer literature becomes more varied and intersectional, White’s contributions remain foundational. He gave literary form to longing and crafted an architecture of language where desire, despair, and joy could co-exist without apology.
More than that, he humanized gay life. In an era when gay men were depicted as deviants, criminals, or victims, White’s characters were complex, self-aware, deeply flawed, and undeniably alive. He made room in literature for the ecstatic and the ordinary aspects of gay experience—from first loves to failed relationships, from artistic ambition to physical decline.
Final Reflections: Mourning and Celebrating a Queer Titan
Edmund White died at 85, but he lived for all of us. His body of work is more than a collection of books—it is a sanctuary, a rebellion, a home. For readers who have ever felt unseen, unloved, or unworthy, his stories offered a mirror and a map. He wrote so that we could see ourselves not just surviving, but thriving in our full humanity.
As tributes pour in from around the world—from literary circles, LGBTQ+ organizations, former students, and devoted readers—it becomes clear that White’s death is not merely the loss of an individual, but the closing of a chapter in the broader queer cultural movement. He will never be replaced, but he will always be read.
White once wrote, “Hope is the essential lubricant of the human spirit.” In that spirit, we move forward with hope—hope that the stories he told will continue to inspire, challenge, and liberate.
Rest in power, Edmund White. Your words will never be silent.
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