GWEN AND RICK DROVE to San Francisco on Saturday morning. They parked by Golden Gate Park and strolled into a meadow where Gwen spotted three middle-aged men and a young woman sitting on a blanket. She had a meeting with these activists. He planned to take a leisurely run to the ocean.
“Is that Hippy Hill?” Rick asked, pointing toward a nearby slope.
“Maybe, I don’t know.”
In fact, she did remember smoking pot there during medical school. But Gwen wasn’t in the mood to wax nostalgic.
“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” she confided.
“Really? They seem like just what you need now. Community people putting pressure on the government to develop drugs for AIDS.”
“I hope you’re right.”
The man with a beard and shaved scalp Gwen knew well. Holden was one of her clinic patients. He had arranged the meeting. She recognized the others from television interviews after the candlelight march in July when thousands had filled the Civic Center demanding federal action on AIDS. Holden had told her about the woman, Rebecca Wolman. Very thin with closely cropped her, she had a master’s degree in public policy from Berkeley. The leaders of the San Francisco AIDS Action Committee, the largest AIDS activist group west of the Mississippi, had hired her to be their executive director. When Gwen had heard her speak, Rebecca was on fire with a formidable, controlled rage as she described what AIDS was doing to gay men and other marginalized people and what had to be done to stop the epidemic.
“Dr. Howard,” said Rebecca graciously, “We know how busy you are. We really appreciate your taking the time to meet with us.”
Slick too, thought Gwen. It was easy to foresee how this ambitious young woman’s public persona would blossom as the epidemic spread. She was going to be quoted by the press, a lot.
Rick excused himself and jogged off.
Gwen was curious about SFAAC, and the activists asked about how the AIDS clinic was funded and what research was being conducted at City Hospital and elsewhere in the university. They spent an hour in collegial discussion. Gwen was impressed by how knowledgeable they were.
Getting down to the real reason they had requested the meeting, Rebecca said SFAAC was intending to take action in a way they believed would increase pressure on the government to put more money into AIDS patient care and research.
“It’ll be a symbolic protest with the dramatic power to grab the media’s attention and generate public outrage. We’ll make the average American viscerally aware of the wave of death this disease has caused.”
Gwen wasn’t sure what “viscerally aware” meant, but it made her uneasy. She also realized Rebecca had done her homework. Gwen’s history of civil rights activism must be the reason SFAAC wanted to meet with her instead of Kevin.
SFAAC’s strategy, Rebecca explained, was to have fifty activists, incognito in business attire, mingling among the convergence of shoppers and office workers in downtown San Francisco’s Union Square on the Friday after Thanksgiving. At precisely four thirty, each activist would open a shopping bag, remove a plastic squirt bottle containing fresh cow’s blood, spray passers-by, and scream “AIDS means death! You’re next!” Each bag would hold six bottles of blood. Rebecca estimated they should be able to “contaminate” one thousand “victims”—one-sixth the cumulative number of AIDS cases recently reported by the CDC. Because the Saturday after Thanksgiving was typically a slow news day, they expected to get national television and front-page newspaper coverage.
Gwen was appalled. She was certain such a “direct action” would do far more harm than good in swaying public opinion. As she formulated a diplomatic way to say this, Rick jogged up to them.
Rebecca, interpreting Gwen’s silence as tacit approval, said, “All of us in SFAAC think the action will be much more powerful if you and Kevin are involved. We’d like you to be arrested with us and make a statement to the press afterwards.”
Rick coughed to mask his gasp. He walked away, head bent down so they wouldn’t see it shake in disbelief.
“Rebecca,” said Gwen, maintaining her composure, “Kevin and I would lose all our credibility if we publicly supported this action, let alone if we participated and were arrested.”
“What? You’d be heroes to people with AIDS!”
“I’m talking about our credibility with the City Public Health Department and NIH. They’re the source of all our funding, and they’re already skeptical about Kevin and me. They wonder if we’re just using the money they’re giving us to create our own little fiefdom. They’re seeing more and more people dying while the problem and the costs keep getting bigger.”
“We’re wondering the same thing,” Rebecca lashed back. “We see Drs. Bartholomew’s and Howard’s names in the newspaper. We hear about the grants you’re getting. It’s obvious AIDS is benefiting your careers. Here’s your chance to prove which side you’re on.”
Gwen was close to losing her temper. For a second, she saw Eva standing before her instead of Rebecca—an edifying vision. She was not going to allow herself to be provoked. Gwen walled off her emotions and thought through what to say next.
Lifting her hands, she said, “Let’s cool down. I appreciate that you folks have a very important role in raising public awareness and empathy for people with AIDS. I respect your courage and imagination. I just don’t agree with your tactics. I’m afraid your demonstration will play poorly in the press, and I’m concerned the media will spin this in a way that could make the general public more repelled by people with AIDS than sympathetic to their plight.
“Please understand, Kevin and my jobs are to do the best we can medically for our patients. That requires a lot of money. The only funding we have is from government agencies. Believe me, we’ve talked to a number of nonprofit foundations. They aren’t interested in helping.”
Rebecca sneered.
“Please, Rebecca, Holden, all of you. Think about what we’re doing at City Hospital. There’s no other place with a clinic like ours, dedicated solely to this disease, or an inpatient unit like the one we just opened. Of course, the country needs a huge, federally-sponsored research effort to develop a cure for AIDS. It’s your job to build that kind of political commitment. If Kevin and I advocate stridently for more government dollars, we’ll look self-serving.”
Rebecca gave the men a cynical half-smile then turned to her.
“They have you exactly where they want you, quietly providing custodial care for a bunch of dying outcasts. The Reagan administration won’t do anything of substance to stop this epidemic or to find a cure, unless we raise the stakes and force them.”
Dumbfounded, Gwen stared at Rebecca who said to the men, “Shall we?”
As the group departed, Holden gave Gwen a sad, short wave goodbye.
Rick was at her side again and slipped his arm around her waist.
“I thought all those sixties hippies that were into political theater had retired by now,” he said.
She didn’t laugh.