Fancy Walker

Asking a child to keep a secret is like asking a bird not to fly, or a fire not to burn, or a right wing conservative with a strict Anti-LGBTQIA+ stance, not to have a secret Grindr account. I was a child of divorce and by age seven, I was very familiar with keeping secrets. Don’t tell dad what mom is doing and don’t tell mom what dad is doing was the number one family rule. Though for me, it was don’t tell dad what mom is doing and tell mom every single thing dad is doing, cause… feminism. The secrets I kept were usually something like “Don’t let your dad know I’m in a relationship or he will try to get out of paying child support.” Which was kind of silly considering he never actually paid child support to begin with. But the first secret I had to keep that was just for me would completely alter my life. 

    I wasn’t what you’d call a “curious child”, in fact I was very content with life. My grandmother even labeled me as such early on. I was born a twin and between my brother John and I, I was known as the “content baby”. I was Baby B. The second to come out of the womb. There was no need to rush, I just wanted extra time to say goodbye and collect my things. But as they say, the last one out is a rotten egg… just kidding, we were both–by medical standards–considered rotten eggs. John would end up passing away at 16 months old. He just couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here and frankly I don’t blame him. If only he knew what was to come… or maybe he did? He didn’t. He was 16 months old, not some infant wizard with infinite wisdom. 

   As for me, my laissez-faire attitude continued on until the year 2000 (cue Conan O’Brien) when I was in my pre-teens. At that time, I knew I was different from the other kids. For instance, they didn’t have a bulky chair with wheels sprouting out of their butts and trust me, they reminded me. Not in a bullying kind of way, but in a “Hey! That’s not fair, I want butt wheels!” kind of way. At this point I had simply assumed the “only” struggle I had was that I was born disabled which meant I had to take lots of meds and go to the doctors frequently. But in the eloquent words of everyone’s step-dad, including mine, “When you ASSUME you make an ASS out of U and Me”. 

   During a routine doctor’s appointment my assumptions would be proven wrong. These sort of routine doctor visits would take most of the day because we would drive from our home on Long Island to my primary doctor’s office in Harlem. But unlike our other routine visits, my primary doctor, Dr. Marcus was not available and in his place was a blur of a man in his 40’s. I’ve never bothered to remember the characteristics of this man’s face, because what he would say as he entered the room would completely eclipse all other information. He would walk in, in that casually frenzied way only a doctor can and blurt out “Let’s take a look at your chart and see how your HIV is doing.” 

   I could see by my mother’s face this was not information I was supposed to know. Not yet at least. Turns out she and Dr. Marcus had their own timeline for when that secret was to be divulged and it wasn’t supposed to be today. But it was today. It happened. There was no putting that cat back in the bag. That cat was so far out of the bag and apparently it had a really shitty immune system. There is a feline AIDS joke in here somewhere I’m sure but I don’t know where… maybe that was just it. On the way back home to Long Island I would learn everything:  

   My father had cheated on my mother, unknowingly contracted HIV and then gave it to my mom who then gave it to my brother and I when she got pregnant. Neither of my parents knew about the HIV until my brother John and I were getting very sick (I told you we were rotten eggs). Since this was back in 1990, my mother was not tested for HIV during her pregnancy. They had no reason to test her because she didn’t fit the stereotypes of someone with HIV/AIDS. She was not an IV drug user, she was middle class, caucasian, heterosexual and in what she thought was a monogamous relationship. Though looking back on it my father was anything but monogamous. He was closer to the definition of mahogany than he was monogamy. If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, my dad would definitely cheat on it with a different, younger, hotter tree. 

   The last thing my mom would tell me as we pulled into the driveway, was that I could not, by any means, tell anyone that I was HIV positive. At this time in the early 2000s, kids were being kicked out of school and protested against if parents found out there was an HIV child around their own precious immune boosted booger. So as an eleven year old, I was finally given my very own secret to hold onto and cherish. It was mine, all mine and boy was I lucky. I was especially lucky when I went to school the following week and we were learning about HIV and AIDS death rates in health class. Such as life is, the cosmos knew that I needed to be tested on my secret keeping abilities immediately and what better way? But I was able to keep my secret. I sat there in class and didn’t say a damn word. Not even as my face went flush, my body buzzed with a nervous adrenaline I had never experienced and my consciousness floated above myself and watched the whole thing from a birds eye view. That view of myself and the world became very normal to me. I continued to sit in many classes, with many students and teachers, in silence, in my confused feelings, watching myself from above over the next six years:

   If you were a teenager during the years of 2000 and 2006, you know that your school’s hallways, classrooms, gymnasiums and probably even teachers lounges were riddled with AIDS jokes. It was like an epidemic. I heard every joke under the sun, which was really just the same regurgitated joke over and over, compliments of Trey Parker and Matt Stone (Thanks guys). And as I’d make my way through these spaces I would just bite my tongue, fake a laugh and clench a fist. But alone, by myself on the bus or at home, I’d crumble into a million little t-cells. And for a moment in my life the medication I had so casually accepted and took without thought became far harder to swallow. To the point that I stopped taking it completely. An act of defiance for having so little control over anything else in my life. Control? Who did I think I was? I never cared about having control up until then but it suddenly became all I wanted. There would be only one place in the world where I would regain my control and find some peace. 

   In Clearwater, FL I would find Showdown Theatre Camp and my love for acting. A camp where we would take acting workshops and put on a straight show and a musical in four weeks. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced. Accepting, funny, talented, kind teenagers and adults filled every square inch of that multi-purpose building. If you’ve ever taken an acting class you know they can quickly become less of a class and more of a therapy session. On this one particular hot summer day that’s exactly what would happen. Our Theatre Teacher would ask each of us students to go up on stage and tell our peers something we’ve never told anyone before. And here I was given another test from the cosmos. I had been so good at keeping my secret. Too good. I became so skilled that it consumed me… and I simply became my secret and had no clue who I was beyond it. I needed to allow myself  to be curious. I needed to allow myself to question and not assume how my life should go. 

   So I stood up on that stage. I looked out into the crowd. I felt the same feelings I had all those years ago in health class. The adrenaline. The buzzing. The flushed face. I said “My name is Joseph Kibler and I’m HIV positive” and in an instant the bird’s eye view I’d been so accustomed to disappeared and I returned to myself. I was greeted with so much love, acceptance and support. That day gave me back my control and the little act of defiance I took immediately went away and I returned (happily) to taking my medication. Theatre gave me life and from that day on, I gave my life to theatre. 

Years later, I would be living in North Hollywood and taking on odd jobs so I could work toward my goal of being a fulltime actor. I’d be standing outside the four bedroom apartment I shared with six guys, just trying to get some air, and here is where I would meet my new neighbor. He was a twenty something with tattoos, a guitar, an Affliction t-shirt–and an affliction of being one massive trope. He would set down his boxes against the stucco covered walls, light up a cigarette, and ask me what I thought about living in the apartment building. I’d tell him that it was pretty cool, it was filled with actors, dancers, musicians and other types of artists. He would scoff and say “Is this place like the musical Rent, except no one here has HIV/AIDS?” 

   And I would smile, turn toward him and say “Well funny you should say that…” After all, what did I have to hide? It’s not like it was a secret anymore.