No One Should be Erased

Today, I went to see the AIDS Memorial Quilt.

It wasn’t something I intended to do. In all honesty, I hadn’t heard of it before. I heard ‘Yorkshire Sculpture Park’ and invited myself to my friend's plans, the rest of the sentence didn’t really compute to my brain. I intended to visit YSP finally, have a wander, have a natter, just a general nice day. 

Today ended up so much deeper.

We didn’t end up at YSP as the larger display was at Wakefield exchange.

I did some research before going. I didn’t want to go in ignorant and wanted to truly understand the meaning behind what I was to see.

Although I am a member of the LGBTQ+ community, I’ve never fully felt like I belonged or fit in. It’s hard to explain. Maybe because I came out later in life. Maybe because I’ve had multiple relationships with men and only one with a woman. Maybe because I’ve never really participated in LGBTQ+ spaces or worlds. I’ve often felt like I hadn’t earned my place.

Through the research, I already felt closer and with more understanding, but I still wasn’t prepared. I’m not sure you can be prepared for something like this.

The drive there was lovely, giggles, conversations, and fun.

The tone shifted the moment we walked in. Suddenly, we were each in our own little worlds, experiencing what lay before us, together but separate.

How do you even begin to describe it?

Sections of quilt spanned the walls and the floor, colourful, beautiful, but so much more. The room felt calm, but with a mix of emotions. Not heavy with sadness, but a mutual understanding of love, loss and grief holding everyone together.

The first tear fell less than a minute into the room.

I had not expected it.

Its appearance as it rolled down my cheek surprised me, but then it was like that tear unlocked a door for me to understand my feelings beneath my own overthinking and everyday life.

The quilts contained names, photos, poems, and notes to the deceased. Some contained the things they loved, what made them them, a little insight into the person beyond the fabric.

I cried.

I smiled.

I felt deeply about something that had not entered my world to consider before.

I think the depth of it all hit me. The fact that it was so unnecessary. These people, real people, with lives and friends and personalities, died, often alone, like people didn’t care because of a label they were given.

How can people be so cruel as to allow people to die because of who they love?

"People are arseholes" just kept popping into my head.

I walked around the exhibit multiple times, noticing different details every time. Some made me smile, some felt heavy.

Two quilts in particular broke me.

The first was plain green with writing. The name Michael appeared at the top with a black fabric box underneath it. Below, the writing explained that the box was there to cover Michael’s last name. His family would not allow it to be shown.

Under the explanation were four ‘last names’ that showed who this person was far more than a birth name ever could:

Michael the Class Act.

Michael the Kind.

Michael the Smile.

Michael the Missed.

Realising what the panel meant felt like a gut punch in my chest.

Just... how?

How can a family do this?

The cruelty to take someone’s name and identity away? But then, underneath it, the love. The people who knew him retelling his identity.

I came back a few times. I felt like it needed extra time. To show that they mattered just as much. That they aren’t nothing. That they can’t be hidden away.

The second piece took me by surprise, and I felt a cry quickly become stuck in my throat as it tried to escape.

It was white.

A plain white sheet with safety pins all around the edges. Attached to the middle was a small cream panel with a red ribbon and a message that broke my heart into pieces;

"This panel was made by a Friend for a Friend.

The parents do not want this panel shown anywhere.

The stigma still exists -

Until this changes this panel will remain covered.

A Red Ribbon is not enough.

The Quilt is not enough.

What will it take?

Attitudes must change!"

Beneath that white sheet was a life lived.

A person.

Memories.

Someone's friend.

Someone's child.

I stood with it several times. Different thoughts in my head each time.

Sometimes anger. What right do they have to keep this hidden?

Sometimes sadness. So close, yet so far from seeing what was underneath.

It’s hard to describe.

I felt sick to my stomach. I still do as I write about it.

As a mother, a daughter and a human being, I can't understand how anyone can be so cruel.

Why?

What right do they have to keep this hidden? Who does that? Someone loved your child so much they made this panel of their life, and you hide it away like it is something dirty?

It is beautiful.

No matter what is underneath that white sheet, this panel, this story, is beautiful and cannot be erased.

I kept thinking to myself, what is wrong with people? All this, and why? Because ignorance served them more than acceptance? By ignoring the pandemic, by casting blame, what was achieved?

But something shifted as I walked around. My initial gut reaction was anger. How can people be so cruel? But my mind softened and opened up to layers of feelings that all came together. People can be many things.

Yes, this is awful.

Yes, people are awful.

But it also highlighted how lovely people can be.

The people who took the time to make the panels.

The people who brought them together with an idea.

The people keeping it alive.

The people in the room, visiting it, experiencing it, showing feelings and emotions for people they may never have personally met.

The love in that room was stronger than the hate.

It is powerful.

It lasts.

Afterwards, we sat in the foyer before going back to the car. We sat in silence for a while. The air felt heavy. Then we shared stories about our own experiences and spoke about some of the pieces of the quilt that affected us the most.

A short while later I announced that it was wonderful and lovely, but I felt sick and needed to move away from that for a minute, so I was bringing out my comedy coping mechanism.

“So, as wonderful as it was, can we plan a slightly lighter day out next time?”

We laughed. It was a different kind of laugh. Not silly and giggling like before. It felt like an understanding of the shared experience and a relief. Not silliness, but the freedom to be ourselves, to still feel, but also move forward.

The drive back was calmer. There were still conversations. Still giggles. But more calmly, like we had all connected on a deeper level and could be more ourselves.

When I got home, I knew I needed to start writing. No planning. No real idea of my own thoughts. I just needed to write the raw emotions. I didn’t expect to be emotional. I didn’t expect it to hit me so hard. I don’t know why, I just didn’t consider it.

It hit me that I felt connected. In a way I can’t fully describe. Connected to something more.

I went out today, and I cried, and I grieved, and for the first time, I felt part of the community I had always felt on the outside of.

Not because I suddenly had all the answers.

Not because I had somehow earned my place.

But because I realised I am still discovering who I am.

Sometimes I feel too much.

Sometimes I feel not enough.

But I can explore that because of the sacrifices of history.

These people were shut away because society didn’t like one part of them. But they were still loved by their community. They were still free to be themselves.

It also highlighted my own ignorance of the history that existed. Not ignorance on purpose. I had simply never sought it out. I’ve always been happy in my bubble, protected from avoidable negativity, choosing to see the positive things in life, and that is still me. But I think I need to open myself up more to how we got here, to truly feel connected to who I am and who I am becoming.

While I was there, I kept thinking we need more of this in the world. More reminders. More warnings of what hatred can do. More signs. More community. To show that people, memories and love still matter. 

No one should be erased.

No one.

They existed then as we exist now. They had memories and personalities and lives as we do.

They should be remembered.

They have that right.

They were left to die, cast out, ignored, erased because they loved the same sex.

And that is something my head and my heart can’t get around understanding.

And I don’t think I want to.

TPFN, Kyra x

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I made the choice not to share any photos in this blog post, but I wanted to show the two pieces I included below. If you wish to see more of the quilt pieces, visit https://www.aidsquiltuk.org/

UK AIDS memorial quilt -----------  To learn more about the history of the quilt, support the preservation partnership, or find out where the panels travel next, please visit AIDS Quilt UK. If you or someone you know has been affected by the themes of stigma, grief, or LGBTQ+ identity discussed in this piece, you can find confidential support and community resources through the Terrence Higgins Trust. You are not alone x