On Working With Sexual Minorities

Aidan looked up at me with big, mournful eyes. He had come to the city to escape the oppression of his small town world. His family and church had rejected him. I could see his loneliness in the way he walked, eyes downcast, slouching a little too much, as if his wish was to waste away. And believe it or not he was. At 5’7, 97lbs I couldn’t believe he was still upright. Every time he stood up he tottered and I fought the urge to reach out my hand, sure that my gesture would be an insult to his pride. Aidan was 23 years old, gay, African-American, and had 7 T cells. My standard speech about lifesaving drugs was met with a blank stare. “My life?,” he mumbled, staring at the floor. “It isn’t worth saving.”


He had seen his family last summer. It had been hot, but they didn’t know about his HIV so he wore long sleeved shirts and pants to cover the staph infections on his skin. He was sick, having diarrhea all day and thrush making it painful to swallow. He wanted to come home. They didn’t know he was gay so he tried disclosing that first. It had not gone well. Aidan began to cry, pitiful sobs that shook his willow-thin frame. I handed him the box of tissues, and he told me about contemplating suicide, standing by the train tracks thinking he should jump. His father told him to go to hell, so he thought, why not. He already felt like he was there.

I touched him on his bony shoulder and looked him in the eye. I told him he was a beautiful man, that he must care or he wouldn’t be here today. I introduced him to a mental health provider and implored him to please, please come back and see us. But it was not to be. Like a passive suicide, he died of AIDS. But I don’t think it was AIDS that killed him.

Cassie was another patient, a bubbly transgender male-to-female who was seen in women’s clinic because she was “proud of her womanhood, baby!”. I complimented her on her nail polish and we talked makeup and fashion. Her appearance was tasteful and she could almost "pass" for a biological woman. But when I asked about employment Cassie grew quiet and a cloud descended over her freckled face. She always told the truth about being transgendered on employment forms because she felt they had a right to know. It also opened the door for her to ask which bathroom they would like her to use. I gathered that she had grown discouraged – she never seemed to get an interview so she was living on the streets, trading sex for food and shelter.

But Cassie was happy again. She was in a relationship with a wonderful man! And yet, they never had sex when they weren’t high and what Cassie described sounded like rape. I asked "how do you feel about that?", and she said “I’m glad that anyone would want to be with me. I’m not a normal girl, you know.” I tried to say “you’re worth more” but she raised her eyebrows and gave me a piercing look that stopped me dead. “You find me a job so I don’t need no sugar daddies”, she said, “and then I’ll believe you.” It’s a difficult thing to argue with.


This transcultural experience of mine has taught me that discrimination and rejection of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered people is not a philosophical or theological concept. It hurts real people like Aidan and Cassie. Too many stories like these.

I wish our society accepted all people for who they are.

(Names and some details changed to protect confidentiality)