Gay Voluntary Associations in New York. Moshe Shokeid
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individuals in their own community. But whatever the lesson learned for ethnographic work, that particular case offered me a deeper comprehension of the existential conditions of gay life under the impact of the HIV/AIDS epidemic.
Jeffrey—The Ethnographer’s Informant/Friend
Jeffrey remained my close friend from the early days of my 1989–1990 observations at CBST. I had a few other intimate CBST friends (whom anthropologists usually define as informants); however, many of that cohort of congregants died of AIDS.3 Other close acquaintances moved away from New York. With some, I lost interest in their affairs or the contact faded, as often happens with acquaintances and friends in daily life. But I never returned to New York, even for a short visit, without meeting Jeff for dinner and a long schmooze at a Village restaurant. We kept up that close bond even after he retired and moved from Manhattan to a new residence on Long Island.
My relationship with Jeff was cemented years ago when he invited me to join him at a monthly meeting of the Golden Shower Association, a group of gay men who shared erotic experiences together (see Chapter 1). It was a sign he considered me an intimate friend from whom he had no need to hide his most private sexual preferences. During the many years of our acquaintance, Jeff told me numerous details about his life—his early childhood, parents, introduction to gay life, employment history, past boyfriends, and continuing search for mates for love and sex (see Chapter 10). Jeff was acquainted with my writings, and we had many a good laugh about my use of the invented name for him, Jeffrey, as presented in my texts, when I called him or when I left a message on his machine. This was one of our shared secrets.
A Secret Revealed
In June 2008 I arrived in New York for a few days’ stay to participate in a professional meeting at New York University. I called Jeff and suggested that we meet when he got to Manhattan. Jeff responded enthusiastically and told me he planned to combine that visit with some other engagements he had in town. When he asked to stay at my place for one night, I willingly agreed to host him at the apartment I rented in Chelsea. Jeff showed up in the late afternoon and we enjoyed our dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant. He told me about his recent affairs, starting a new part-time job, and getting involved in a promising romantic relationship, a man he had met at a party in the company of local affluent gay neighbors.
I had to leave the apartment early the next day, scheduled to present a paper at a morning conference session. However, by around 5:30 a.m. Jeff was already awake, complaining of acute stomach or kidney pains. He could hardly stand up. I realized I must take him immediately to an emergency room. I helped him get dressed, stopped a cab, and headed to St. Vincent’s Hospital, nearby on Seventh Avenue.
I stood close to Jeff as he answered the questions needed for registration and reporting on his medical status. He was listing his past treatments and medications as he extracted from his bag a large container of pills. Suddenly, Jeff raised his eyes to me and said, “You’ll not like this,” and continued his report: “I’m HIV.” I was stunned but remained impassive. I knew that in recent years Jeff had suffered a series of medical problems. He had also gone through a period of depression. But I never suspected he was infected with HIV. I remembered a story he told me years before about a moment when his late mother’s voice had stopped him on the way to the Mineshaft, a sex club later identified as a major site of HIV transmission.
I was in no way uncomfortable with the discovery of having been in close social contact with a man infected with the dreadful virus. I was not embarrassed thinking that the paramedic who took notes of Jeff’s medical history might assume I was the cheated-upon partner in a gay relationship. But I felt betrayed at not being informed by a friend I strongly believed had no secrets hidden from me. I was conscious of the deep disappointment and the notion of failure of the mutual relationship we both experienced before the seemingly disinterested stranger. In Goffman’s terms, one might suggest that shame was not only Jeff’s share (1967: 106): “by the standards of the little social system maintained through the interaction, the discreditor is just as guilty as the person he discredits [through the unexpected revelation in our case].”
I refrained from any verbal comment and busied myself looking around as if curious about the hectic commotion in the crowded emergency room. In the meantime, however, Jeff managed to contact his family doctor on his cell phone and inform him of the situation. As soon as Jeff was put in a bed to await further examination, I left for the apartment to prepare for my long day at the conference. I managed to get to my session at NYU on time. I called Jeff a few hours later and discovered he was on the bus going home after being treated for his pains and discharged; he had been informed it was a nerve infection of some sort with no further complication. I called him again before my departure the next day, and he seemed to have returned to his normal affairs.
I soon got over my surprise, disappointment, and feeling of being deceived by a close friend. When I called Jeff a few weeks later from Tel Aviv, he told me the details of his infection, tracing it back to the late 1990s or even earlier. I did not probe his lack of disclosure about that misfortune, leaving it to be discussed on a future occasion. I came to believe anthropologists sometimes develop a distorted perception of reality, assuming their close informants are uniquely open to them, with no untold stories intentionally left hidden behind.
However, as it soon turned out, another chapter was waiting for me to complete my story. In late November 2008, I returned to New York for a few days en route to the American Anthropological Association meeting in San Francisco. I called Jeff sometime before my departure and made a date to meet him for dinner on my last evening in New York. Looking forward to seeing him, I thought I must find a way to access that untold story, which had left me wary of a relationship I had considered so trustworthy. How could I rely on Jeff’s other stories which I believed truthful? I called him soon after my arrival in New York to confirm our meeting. He told me he would come to my place accompanied by his boyfriend. As much as I wanted to meet Jeff’s new partner, I was disappointed since I assumed that in his presence I would not be able to return to the last disturbing incident of his collapse in my apartment and the HIV revelation.
I was surprised beyond all expectations. Martin, the boyfriend, a young-looking blond man in his late forties (though not a Latino—Jeff’s preferred type), seemed eager to meet me. The two arrived in good spirits, and even before they had seated themselves on the sofa, Jeff announced, “You see here two survivors!” Clearly, he was referring to the last embarrassing story that had taken place in the same apartment. Actually, I already knew that Martin, who had been with a partner for the prior twenty-five years, was also HIV positive. He seemed very relaxed and open and soon became the dominant participant in our long conversation.
In that cozy atmosphere I made my move, asking Jeff directly why he had kept his HIV infection situation secret from me. He and Martin responded almost in unison, claiming that gay men normally keep that information secret even among themselves. Martin was angry in his reaction as he expressed his dismay over the way gay men handle the disclosure of another gay man’s HIV status. He first experienced this disturbing response when he witnessed the enthusiastic reception of a good-looking man who entered a gay bar in their Long Island neighborhood. The man was immediately swamped by admirers. But then somebody must have whispered that the guy was HIV positive; he was abruptly left on his own. At that moment Martin realized what his own position might be in this company. He regretted divulging his medical condition without reservation.
Consequently, when he met Jeff he was too scared to tell him he was HIV positive. He was afraid he might lose a man he loved more than anyone in the previous twenty years (his relationship with his domestic partner was no longer one of loving companionship). He waited a few months before deciding he could no longer deceive Jeff and took the risk of revealing his status. Jeff did not desert him, but to Martin’s surprise, he resisted Martin’s insistence on having protected sex. It took a few more months until one day, Jeff went down on his knees in a dramatic gesture and told Martin he had something important to tell him. Martin could never understand why Jeff had clung to his own secret long after he himself had disclosed his condition.
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