Scan barcode
A review by allygator
The Other Pandemic: An AIDS Memoir by Lynn Curlee
emotional
inspiring
reflective
sad
medium-paced
5.0
Big thanks to NetGalley for the e-ARC of this in exchange for an honest review!
I feel honored to get to experience reading this book pre-publication. Lynn Curlee's memoir about coming into his own as a queer person during the AIDS epidemic was heartbreaking to read, especially as he compares it to current teens growing up surrounded by COVID.
As an avid enjoyer of queer history, I have found it necessary, though incredibly difficult, to learn about the AIDS crisis. I think one of the best ways to do so is to read, watch, or listen to the stories of those who lived through it, and this book is the perfect example of why. I learned, yes, but I also got to feel (for however brief the book is) connected to a queer elder who paved the way for people like me stepping into our queerness in this post-AIDS world. I have never known the fear that I would get a deadly disease, unknowingly spread it to a partner, and eventually wither away while the general public watched me with disgust. I am lucky, but so many were not. Reading about Curlee's friends and partners who one by one succumbed to a virus we knew very little about reminded me of how much divides my generation and the previous one, but it also fostered a sense of community between them and me. I don't know AIDS on a personal level, but I do know COVID. I became an adult during the pandemic and it changed every bit of me. I know what it is like to have my world altered indefinitely because of a disease the government would rather make a political issue than a public health one.
This memoir never expects its audience to feel at fault for anything that happened to the people it talks about -- it's aimed at teens. But it expects them to slot the stories of the queer men who died into their outlook on the pandemic. Yes, AIDS caused an entire subset of people to live in fear for over a decade, but those people emerged from those hardships stronger than ever and even more willing to fight for the right to survive. I was sad reading this, but I was also uplifted. Encouraged to make my voice heard. To refuse to let those in power take away from the life I am supposed to be allowed to live. It doesn't shy away from the tragedy of what happened to queer people in the 1980s, but it also shows the joy those people experienced. This is a story of perseverance, of people getting beat down and finding a way to get back up again and dance and sing and fight for what is right.
I think queer kids growing up with access to books like this will realize how important the fight we've been fighting is. We've been going at it for so long, and it's exhausting, but if we keep it up no child will ever grow up afraid that they will never get to live openly with the person they love. For too long we have lived quietly, let our anger simmer beneath our skin, but this book is a clear example of the good that can come from letting ourselves be angry. Things have changed. Things will continue to change. And artists like Lynn Curlee will tell the stories of those who can't tell them anymore.
I feel honored to get to experience reading this book pre-publication. Lynn Curlee's memoir about coming into his own as a queer person during the AIDS epidemic was heartbreaking to read, especially as he compares it to current teens growing up surrounded by COVID.
As an avid enjoyer of queer history, I have found it necessary, though incredibly difficult, to learn about the AIDS crisis. I think one of the best ways to do so is to read, watch, or listen to the stories of those who lived through it, and this book is the perfect example of why. I learned, yes, but I also got to feel (for however brief the book is) connected to a queer elder who paved the way for people like me stepping into our queerness in this post-AIDS world. I have never known the fear that I would get a deadly disease, unknowingly spread it to a partner, and eventually wither away while the general public watched me with disgust. I am lucky, but so many were not. Reading about Curlee's friends and partners who one by one succumbed to a virus we knew very little about reminded me of how much divides my generation and the previous one, but it also fostered a sense of community between them and me. I don't know AIDS on a personal level, but I do know COVID. I became an adult during the pandemic and it changed every bit of me. I know what it is like to have my world altered indefinitely because of a disease the government would rather make a political issue than a public health one.
This memoir never expects its audience to feel at fault for anything that happened to the people it talks about -- it's aimed at teens. But it expects them to slot the stories of the queer men who died into their outlook on the pandemic. Yes, AIDS caused an entire subset of people to live in fear for over a decade, but those people emerged from those hardships stronger than ever and even more willing to fight for the right to survive. I was sad reading this, but I was also uplifted. Encouraged to make my voice heard. To refuse to let those in power take away from the life I am supposed to be allowed to live. It doesn't shy away from the tragedy of what happened to queer people in the 1980s, but it also shows the joy those people experienced. This is a story of perseverance, of people getting beat down and finding a way to get back up again and dance and sing and fight for what is right.
I think queer kids growing up with access to books like this will realize how important the fight we've been fighting is. We've been going at it for so long, and it's exhausting, but if we keep it up no child will ever grow up afraid that they will never get to live openly with the person they love. For too long we have lived quietly, let our anger simmer beneath our skin, but this book is a clear example of the good that can come from letting ourselves be angry. Things have changed. Things will continue to change. And artists like Lynn Curlee will tell the stories of those who can't tell them anymore.