George Denison recalls living in San Francisco in the 1980s, when his friends, his co-workers and so many others were dying of AIDS
The San Francisco AIDS holocaust of the 1980s took so many tremendous lives that words cannot describe or even explain.
It took the lives of most of my friends, co-workers, employers. Peripherally, the lives they touched and some great things they were working on to make the community and the world a better place. Possibly the cure for cancer, or a way to make cars safer, or activism that would make the world a more compassionate and happier place for everyone.
As a fashion model during this time, I was required by my agent to deliver flowers to people, including his lover (this was the preferred description for same-sex partners) who was dying in an apartment building that was temporarily donated by the landlord as an end-stage dying center for AIDS victims. Many are now memorialized in an ephemeral setting in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park. It is considered a hallowed area for many.
The use of the word lover, most believed, was because of the droves of violence against what was then called the gay community, and today the LGBTQ+ community. “Gay bashings” was the term, and there occurred nearly one a day, for years.
East of San Francisco is the San Joaquin Valley, home of the rodeo capital of the world in Oakdale. The San Joaquin Valley was also the cattle farming community and an entirely different culture than the accepting one in San Francisco.
On weekends, droves of “rednecks” from the valley would come up to the city and commit gay bashings. I saw the aftermath of one on my friend Timothy Rush, whose face didn’t recover until nearly a year later. Many believe the bashings happened because the perpetrators wanted to exact vengeance on the people they blamed for starting the disease that had recently spread to the heterosexual community.
Homelessness was rampant as AIDS victims were dying in doorways along the sidewalks in San Francisco and in other cities in the Bay Area. People understood that a person was dying simply with the phrase, “He’s sick.”
Words cannot explain my first visit to the dying center — the hospice. I called my agent from the pay phone, crying, weeping. I fainted, but I went back inside.
But over time I became a celebrated regular visitor. Some looked forward to seeing the model from the renowned Jimmy Grimme’s agency (he discovered Christy Turlington and Jack Scalia).
To others, I was the funny theatrical guy that gave joy to people as their lives were slowly being lost.
Many had no family, some because of the stigma of having a gay son. Others because their lovers and friends had already died.
Some clutched my hand or kissed me, as they knew they wouldn’t be alive for my next visit.
I will stop here. I was going to write a poem. I will another time.
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