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Each December 1, I pull open the small drawer of my jewelry box and reach past the eclectic collection of old watches, broken necklaces, mismatched earrings, and clunky bracelets for a strand of red satin ribbon that rests near the back. I slide it between my thumb and index finger, smoothing the creases and straightening the edges. Then, after shaping it into a simple loop, I pin it to the lapel of my wool coat.
Next, I sit down at my laptop and scroll through the images that fill my screen after I type "AIDS ribbon" into the search bar. I choose a simple photo of the ribbon resting in the palms of someone's hands and take a screenshot. I upload it as a temporary profile picture to Facebook and Instagram. I compose a short message next to a black-and-white snapshot of my father—Remembering my dear dad and thinking of the 38+ million people living with HIV on this World AIDS Day—and then post it. A brief satisfaction blankets me before it's overshadowed by a rising doubt curved into a question: Does doing this really matter?
December 13 will mark 27 years since my father died of an AIDS-related illness. He contracted HIV in 1985, a time when AIDS was a certain death sentence and still shrouded in mystery. For the 10 years before his death in 1995, I watched my father, a man who could once fill a room with his confidence, shrink beneath the layers of stigma and shame that were woven into the fabric of the disease he carried. For him, like so many others diagnosed during that era, the complicated burden of AIDS made him feel less of a person.
Of course, the people who know me will respond to my social media posts with words of compassion and care. They will pause when they notice my red ribbon and acknowledge what it means to me. But because most of the people in my primarily white, middle-class orbit are not immediately affected by HIV, it won't be hard for them to move on with their days and forget about it. And it's not hard for me to understand why.
In the almost four decades since my father was diagnosed, shifting attitudes about AIDS and the progress made with medications that make HIV a chronic, but not necessarily fatal condition, have caused it to drop from the headlines, and the urgency in our response has declined. Public memory is short, and to many, AIDS feels like a piece of our past.
It isn't.
According to the UNAIDS World AIDS Day report released on Tuesday, 650 000 people died as a result of AIDS in 2021, and 1.5 million people were newly infected with HIV. At this rate, 7.7 million people could die from AIDS-related illnesses by 2030. These statistics should be alarming to the average person. Yet the inequities that live within these numbers perpetuate HIV's status as a disease that belongs to someone other than them.
Those most impacted by AIDS are vulnerable and marginalized groups. The disproportionate rate of infections in black and brown communities, women, people who inject drugs, sex workers, people who are economically disenfranchised, gay and bisexual men, and other sexual and gender minorities points to ongoing inequalities in rights, education, and access to healthcare and prevention therapies. Despite the social progress of the last 40 years, there remain deeply embedded and harmful responses to this disease that imply that the manner of infection is what dictates our empathy.
On World AIDS Day 2022, global leaders are issuing a call to "equalize." Tackling this disease means breaking down the cultural, social, and structural barriers that prevent available resources from reaching everyone. It means leaning in, instead of turning away, when we are confronted by circumstances that highlight the divides and disparities that stall progress toward ending AIDS. And it means letting go of the question, "How did they get it?" (when that detail is intentionally left out of the conversation) so that the answer stops affecting how we offer support.
Wearing my red ribbon, posting to social media, writing this essay, publishing a book about my family's experience—these things matter, not because my father's story is more important than anyone else's, but because they are my tools for reminding people that AIDS is still here and that each one of the millions of stories contained in its 40-year history deserves equal attention.
