Adam + Leila
Having grown up in San Francisco, a progressive city where I’d participated in queer youth programming, I knew how to have “the talk” with partners. I knew to ask when they were last tested and about their results. And I did that consistently—I took all the right steps. Unfortunately, a guy I was seeing lied about his status. I found out when my routine six-month test came back positive. As the nurse held my hand, I started to cry. In that moment, I pictured myself at twenty-two years old in a hospital bed with tubes snaked through my nose and mouth. I said, “My family is going to be so disappointed in me.”
I went home that night and cuddled with Laila, whom I’d adopted just three months before I received that diagnosis. For weeks after, I would wake up crying and stare at my reflection in disbelief, tears streaming down my face. I felt utterly defeated and hopeless. I was young—I didn’t even have a primary care doctor yet! I told both my family and work within a few days of finding out because I didn’t think I could process the diagnosis alone, but I’m not sure that it was the best thing to do. Even if people weren’t saying anything to my face, I knew they were saying things behind my back, and my family quickly cut me out.
My family’s reaction wasn’t surprising. Both of my parents are immigrants. Dad is from China and Mom is from Burma. I’m their firstborn son and the oldest of ten children. Where they come from, being the firstborn son comes with a lot of privileges and responsibilities—being gay meant I wasn’t living up to those responsibilities. When I came out at seventeen, my parents had told me I wasn’t their son anymore, and that if they’d known I was going to be gay, then they wouldn’t have had me. I tried to run away, but I didn’t know where to go. When I came back a few hours later, my clothes were in a laundry basket on the sidewalk. I finished high school while staying with my best friend’s family. My parents and I didn’t speak for a year. Eventually my dad apologized, but our relationship had barely recovered when I had to come out again—this time as HIV positive.
When I sat them down, the first thing my mom said was, “I knew this was going to happen the day you told me you were gay.” I was immediately disinvited to family dinners and parties. My brothers and sisters weren’t allowed to come to my house anymore. Once, I took my eight-year-old brother to the movies and as I was ordering food, he shouted, “I have to get my own water!” I knew that someone must have drilled that into him before they let him go out with me. These kinds of constant microaggressions hurt my feelings, but I didn’t know how to stand up for myself. It was a lonely time. At one point, I actually started to think, I am a diseased person and people shouldn’t be around me.Ignorance can be a strong beast.
Laila was an invaluable companion through all that. The stigma surrounding HIV didn’t exist to Laila—she still sat next to me and slept next to me. My responsibility to take her out, to get some fresh air and get my brain to release endorphins, is what helped keep depression at bay—especially as my body struggled to adjust to the medication. For weeks, I’d wake up in the night and stumble down the hallway or collapse onto the floor. When I was too sick to get up, Laila stood next to the bed and put her head on my chest (something she does to this day if I’m not feeling well). She’d wait there for nearly an hour at times to make sure I was okay.
It was scary. I was getting constant migraines, vivid dreams and was sensitive to sunlight, but I didn’t know whether it was from the medication, the HIV or the stress. At the time, I was taking what I was told was the best pill on the market. Because people I knew were taking up to fifteen pills a day, I felt like I should just stick it out with this one. It would be years before I’d learn that these were common side effects of the medication and eventually switch to something my body could handle.
Going through the motions to care for Laila when all I wanted to do was stay in bed helped me build the momentum and stamina I needed to take care of myself. I started to ask questions like, How do I tackle this diagnosis? Am I going to live, or am I going to die? The demons were there but I began to see a way out.
When I finally sat down and confronted my dad, I realized that he didn’t have the words or the education to understand what HIV is today—how I couldn’t give it to anyone through being bit by the same mosquito or by sharing a glass of water. After a difficult two-hour conversation with him, we went out to get dinner. At one point, I cut off a piece of his steak with my fork and when my dad moved the rest of the meat to my plate, I was disappointed. I thought, After all that, he still doesn’t get it. “No,” he said. “I’m giving it to you because you’re clearly still hungry.” Then he took the rest of the steak and shoved it into his mouth. It was funny. My dad’s understanding of the world is different, but we were willing to hear each other.
Three months after I started medication, I decided to go to law school in Hawaii. It was a difficult decision because I wouldn’t be able to take Laila, but I felt I needed to make a fresh start in a place where no one knew me. While I was away, Laila stayed with my roommate and my brother, and I came back every chance I could. Law school is where I became immersed in LGBT work—civil rights, anti-discrimination, HIV and policy.
That background led me to my current work speaking with high school students (most around 14 years old) [CG2] in the Bay Area about HIV and safer sex. It isn’t easy to share my story and relive the memories of my diagnosis over and over again. It’s raw and emotional, but doing it makes me feel like this horrible thing that happened was not for nothing.
Often the kids I speak to ask how I managed to lift myself up, to keep going when I was kicked out at seventeen. I tell them about the dream I had for my life as a kid: I’d go to college, get a job, get married, have children, a dog and a house—I simply never stopped reaching for those things. I wanted to prove wrong everyone who thought I couldn’t turn my life around. I picked myself up, showed gratitude toward those who helped me along the way, and continued working toward my goals. I got two part-time jobs my first year in college, applied for financial aid, and kept putting one foot in front of the other.
Eleven years later, I have pretty much all the things I dreamt of. Two of my younger siblings live with me now, and I recently adopted my beautiful daughter. Though my partner and I are no longer together, we have a great relationship and we co-parent both our daughter and Laila. I do work I love. My life couldn’t be more different from that fearful image I painted of myself dying in a hospital bed the day I tested positive.
In the last six years, I’ve probably shared my story with more than 3,000 students. Each time, I tell them, I sat in the same Bay Area health class, in the same desks they’re sitting in, learning about this stuff. I am not a bad person—you don’t get HIV because you are a bad person. You can be a good person, an educated person, and get HIV. We have to get past the stigma—that is the reason people don’t get tested and are not honest about their status.
This virus does not happen to people because they deserve it. By sharing my story, that is the legacy I want to leave behind.
Hearing each other’s stories reminds us that we’re all fighting the good fight, to show understanding and compassion for those who struggle, and that there’s power when you surround yourself with good people. Laila gave me that. Whether it was the peaceful walks or nights she was there to lean on—she provided a home I could go back to, a place of reprieve. Laila showed me what unconditional love truly is. When humans were casting me out or saying hurtful things behind my back, Laila showed up for me—she was consistently loyal—and she still shows up for me. Every single day, she meets me with love.