Let's Talk HIV: Home for the Holidays

Christmas came and went and it was enjoyable. I went to some parties thrown by neighbors and totally behaved. That means I did not go into performance mode as a way of deflecting interaction with others. I acted engrossed when people told me about the degrees they wanted to get, trees that will be cut down, and views on the local politics -- all topics in which I have little interest.

But this season I did everything in my power to listen and stay present and know that sometimes people had to talk, and that the gift I could give was to listen. As I have mentioned before, I did not grow up with holiday of any kind and I have been doing my best to integrate them into my life.

It isn't so much about the holidays as it is being social. I'm a hermit. I speak to thousands of people, I run an art gallery but socially, I have not been too active. I have never had a dinner party -- or for that matter, any party. I don't get together with groups of friends for a drink, take shopping trips with women, or vacations with couples. I sit on my deck in silence enjoying the solitude. Solitude is okay but isolation can be dangerous and I tend towards the latter. This year I have been practicing breaking my isolation.

I have a neighbor, Jay, who I think of as the mayor of the street. His family has been on the islands for over 200 years and he has lived in the house next to me for over 40 years. He keeps an eye on everything and is quick to help with any problem one may have. He is a funny, charming older man and I enjoy his company. He knew very little about me.

Mainly he loves to talk and his stories are interesting so I would just listen. He told me how St. Thomas used to be in the '40s, '50s, and '60s, what it was like growing up here, and how his family lived and survived. He told me hurricane stories and about the wildlife that used to be out here, that is no more.

When we first met, he asked what I did. I said I was a writer and working on some projects. I let it slip I wrote some books and regretted it immediately. For the next six months, he would ask for copies to read and I would put him off and say I would get him some but would never come through.

My work reveals everything about my life. From living with HIV to the grief, depression, suicidal feelings, family issues, body image, alcoholism, and addiction. All the pain and suffering is on the pages of my three books of poetry, and the book on women and HIV talks about how I dealt with this disease even though my story is only in the author's bio. I didn't want any of that to be a part of our walks.

But when I found a cheery, Christmas-themed bag hanging on my doorknob with organic coffee beans from Puerto Rico I thought, "Oh shit." That was after my delight of receiving a perfectly fitting gift.

I don't know how gifts work. I give them spontaneously to people when I see something they might like or I have something they might need. Christmas and birthday gifts seem like a bad idea. Forcing yourself to find something for people in a limited space and then they open them with such expectation -- usually to be disappointed -- is such pressure.

I know people say that just because they give you a gift doesn't mean you have to give something back, but I know that can't mean that. So being Christmas morning with all stores closed I decided to sign five of my books and put them in a bag (the same one he gave me; that's okay, right?) and I dropped it off on his porch as the sun rose.

Up until this point, he did not know I was HIV positive or really any of the hardships I have been through. So this morning's walk was interesting. We did not say anything for a bit and finally he said, "The women in the book, they are still alive, right?" I said no, most of them have died. He looked so sad. I wished I had not given him such a depressing gift.

When I said that all the women had passed I also realized why I have been isolated all these years. They are dead and so is a huge contingent of people I knew from the '80s and '90s. It was enough loss to barricade your spirit against any incoming kindness and possible affection for others.

Jay is in his 80's. If I stay here for any length of time, I will witness his death at some point. But not to be friends out of the fear of that loss suddenly seemed ridiculous to me. The six months it took for me to let him know anything really substantial of what I had been through might have been overcautious. I think our walks and talks were a mini-vacation from myself. But as worried as he might be for me, I could tell he was touched that I gave him this personal gift. It is one thing for the public to see me perform or read one of my books, but the person I walk with every morning is a reminder of what I live with every day.

I know he wanted to know why I was alive and so much more but I couldn't do it, not right then; maybe tomorrow. As we parted, he said in his West Indian accent, "You're okay though, right?" I said, "Yeah man, I am okay," and left it at that.

I know he is shocked and probably even more worried for me. He always wants me to get a gun since I am a woman living alone here in the wilds of St. Thomas, but the payoff of sharing myself with him and others slowly, is allowing myself to be nourished by the intimacy and compassion that follows.

River Huston is an award winning writer, performer, lecturer, painter, and activist. She speaks on issues related to sexuality, communication, and overcoming challenges. River currently lives in The US Virgin Islands running a non-profit art alliance called sevenminusseven. For more info visit www.riverhuston.com