Lora R.

Happy Anniversary or Diagnosis Day?

I don’t know what to say… “Happy anniversary? Diagnosis Day?” On August 27, 2017 I felt I should celebrate the day I was diagnosed. It was my anniversary; the day that marks when I began to beat the odds and survived… but there’s also something uncomfortable, even somewhat creepy about it to me. August 27, 2017 was the twentieth anniversary of me receiving that life–altering statement, with the doctor holding my hand and a lilt in his voice saying: “I’m so sorry.” That day in 1997 was like knowing where you were when either of the Kennedy’s were assassinated, when the Challenger exploded, or when the Twin Towers went down. I have two very personal signposts for my diagnosis day: the death of Princess Diana and John Kennedy Jr.  (Oh- what could have been…) Both were my contemporaries.  Both died the same year.  Maybe that is why I feel I should celebrate in some way… it’s an hiv thing, (you may get it. (?) I would like to share a story with you, I promise I’ll make it brief: In August of 1997, after over seventeen years of being a corporate interior designer, I left my job at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York as a senior designer and accepted a position in human services. I also decided to take an HIV test after getting a phone call the prior winter. On August 27th, my doctor informed me that I had AIDS, on the 28th, I went to my first day on the job at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility, conducting empowerment workshops. As I began my journey, with the only family member I told at the same time; I went to several doctors; one of which informed me I probably had six months to live and to get my business in order. (And I did… First, not returning to THAT so-called specialist.) I did find a doctor and kept the one who broke the news; both became my partners in my survival. So, I made plans to live with the virus, not die of it. Up to this day, I am still mentally resisting this virus and the stigma that labels me, marginalizes me, and places some scarlet letters across my forehead. In neon. BUT Since I was informed that I had six months to live, (twenty friggin’ years ago,) I achieved more than I imagined I would had if I were sero-negative: I obtained my credentials as a substance abuse counselor, assisted in the clemency of a mother of four who was a victim of the draconian Rockefeller Drug Laws, graduated with honors with a master’s in social work and received my license, published my first book of poetry, became an adjunct professor teaching Diversity and Racism… now I am a psychotherapist, working to obtain my LCSW, training for my certification as a poetry therapist, writing for POZ, and following my bliss.  Like everyone else, I have been and still am living until I die; grabbing hiv by the.… throat and making plans, having setbacks, and reaching some goals. I refuse to give hiv any more power than it has.   Hell, there are people I have met and know who can boast of being 30-plus-year miracles; surviving when all hope appeared lost, when friends and lovers were disappearing around them… Do they celebrate their anniversary?  Would I be considered obnoxious even thinking this way?  (Bitch, why even bring it up?!) How do I celebrate the miracle that is my surviving this dis-ease that still savages so many loved ones? Still orphaning children and destroying families? Should I be just moving on, no acknowledgement, no love… Love for me… And my perseverance… And my friggin’ life?  I did ask a few of friends (who aren’t hiv +) to join me to “celebrate.”  I (tried) to explain why.  One seemed to ignore me as if I might have lost my mind. A couple of people reacted to my remembering my diagnosis date with a weird disdain: “Why are you even uttering you have had it (“the cooties”) for so long, let alone boast…” (Maybe, because I’m a survivor, not a victim.) “What’s the big deal? It’s not as if that day was positive.” (But look at all the positive things that happened after that date.) “I’d want to forget that date…” …But I can’t. Because I will always be aware of my diagnosis date.  One way (death sentence) or the other (I’m a survivor). It’s like the disease, lurking in that reservoir, that dark abyss; surfacing in August whether I want it to or not.  I always know when it is near. And those signposts through time kept me counting the years, tears, months, since that first day I walked out of my doctor’s office. This year I took notice when the deluge of documentaries and news clips about Princess Diana’s death surfaced; constant articles and moments of silence for John Kennedy Jr. Then they said twenty years had passed, DAMN! It’s been THAT long? Time flies… (Am I Saying That?!)  I just worked through the day, August 27, 2017.  I moved through that day, looking around, realizing I continued to LIVE and lived through the anniversary of when I was told I had AIDS. I have survived twenty years, when so many have not. One thing I did before that day passed, I sat still for several minutes, looking at all my signposts along the way… being grateful, I looked up said “Thank you” to God and everyone who was and is a part of my life; my survival… A new year has come, August is months ago, and I sit here typing, just as stunned as I was twenty years ago. But this year, I will celebrate that I am still right here… Yay!

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April 3, 1968

A poem for the new year in honor of Dr.Martin Luther King, Jr. and some “food for thought” in this “post – empathic” age. In remembrance of Dr. Martin Luther King, I reflected on Dr. King’s last 24 hours on earth; the day before he became immortal.  History books don’t teach about the Sanitation men’s strike or what the average person endured when the tsunami of racial-political energy converged on the city of Memphis.  Now, back stories and conspiracy theories have made great documentaries and movies.  “Some said” Dr. King knew what was coming, that there were foreboding signs of Dr. King’s demise. Others gave various conspiracy theories that rivaled President Kennedy’s. Imagine the constant anticipation of doom that followed him, Dr. King gave his all anyway, having in the back of his mind that at any time… APRIL 3, 1968 Lorraine Welcomed a King and his court with Gideon Bibles in the drawers, ice in the buckets. Highly noted in the Green Book Lorraine made sure they felt welcomed With the sheets folded down (Not over someone’s head) and hermetically sealed soap on the vanity. Lorraine, the quintessential hostess Briefly held him and his dream Gave them respite, even just for one night. Memphis was his mountaintop; He told her he came back having something to prove in a city of two worlds: Proud men as human billboards Reminding narrow minds they, too, are American Facing men with centuries of disdain Group think of poisoned minds  Incensed that the “service class” Deserved to be served. Lorraine knows of service: Available all night Guaranteed safe after sundown; Yet, in 24 hours what Lorraine had to do would be more than hanging towels and fluffing pillows. Balcony his perch he stood looking down at his knights making plans for the promised land Sun in his eyes He vowed to return leaving Lorraine his disheveled sheets smothered cigarette in the ashtray dreams scattered across the floor Mulberry Street became the road to the promised land – But for the rest of us the road had a detour. Like Lemmings we veered off the cliff We all fell when his head was pierced by white hot hate speeding through the Cointelpro‘s crosshairs… Right in front of Lorraine. Lorraine Didn’t want the attention or fame Nor the responsibility of cleaning his blood and brains She knew nothing would ever be the same So, she embraced her place in history Kept her Green Book address And changed her name. * (*The Lorraine Motel is now the National Civil Rights Museum; 450 Mulberry Street, Memphis, TN.)

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Happy Poetry Month from The Therapeutic Poet

April is Poetry Month and Poetry Therapy can be the door that opens one to feeling, strengths, possibilities, and hope. April is poetry month; celebrated by yours truly by joining my poet comrades and doing a 30/30 (thirty poems in thirty days). This is month where lovers of poetry and spoken word are going to readings, doing open mics, conferences, and celebrations; there are special postings on websites, and sometimes a human interest spot on PBS News Hour. I am also amazed this month how the mechanics of writing has evolved; you don’t have to just put a pen to paper! I praise the emancipating and empowering way the word gets read and heard, through a device, hung on a wall, or out of ones smart phone (I know, it’s a device too…) The poem of the 21st century is technical. graceful, artful, and POWERFUL. HIV Here and Now (Using poetry and the arts to advocate for a world without HIV or AIDS) post poems from people like you and me, expressing our feelings , observations, and our voices for Na(HIV)PoWriMo ± (National (HIV) Poetry Writing Month ±) They are active year around with poems,, writing prompts, and workshops.   If you are a pen pusher (like me!) or just a lover of words, spoken or written, check them out! As the Therapeutic Poet, I use poetry therapy as a means to empower, treat, and recover, from obstacles, illnesses, and barriers one can come across in our lives. I also use the same power of the word and pen for my own health and wellness… (Like “Hair Club for Men,” I’m not only the therapist, but I use it!) As much as I have written, I NEVER wrote about my hiv.   Here are two of my poems, my first two poems, about my relationship with that rude guest in my body:   On That Day On that day doubt surrounded me like trees touching each other’s fingers; the foreboding forest grasping limb to limb arching over my head.   Yet, I kept moving forward foot in front of foot beyond the morass that enveloped my soles/soul looking for a clearing through the gaps between the branches the openings beyond the shame.   Though vines of cynicism Slapped/grabbed/tugged me down I kept lifting myself up Like a fawn’s first footing Fighting for solid ground   And I kept moving forward Not knowing where I was Not knowing where I was going I sliced through the fog of fear Though darkness was in my line of vision.   I just kept moving forward And kept looking up beyond the crimson chaos the grey shades of doubt Allowing light years of faith to come down Clear a path that suited me best And I kept moving forward Letting my faith do the rest.   Nothing is so scary Than what is ahead Nothing is so hopeful Than lifting my head Catching a glimmer of faith by looking to the heavens So on that day keep moving forward Somehow, Someway.   IF YOU REMEMBER NOTHING ELSE, REMEMBER THIS If you remember nothing else, remember this: That history dances with time And may tap you on the shoulder for a dance; Grab its hands Don’t let it wrap its arms/hands Around your waist You guide it/ rest them securely Where it can follow you Take your arms, toned with the constant exercise of dignity and discipline; your sturdy hands – Ready to grip/hold/fight But cajole/caress/comfort with Your feet firmly planted which No one can sway Hold history             tightly Hold life        firmly And lead; Lead, LEAD Read More About: #poetry Join The Discussion  Comments PreviousHappy Anniversary… blogger profileLora René Tucker NextApril 3, 1968  

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