Yours in the struggle,

It is how I close all of my emails. For me its not just a sentence, its an homage to my friend and partner in crime, Michael Hirsch.

When I first came to Washington, I had no idea which way was up. The serendipity of me getting this new job, without any knowledge of DC, meant that I had to scramble from day one. Michael was one of the first persons to take me under this wing. He was the quid essential New York Jewish Gay Activist. He was outrageous, maddening, and fun. He was also the first executive director (ED) of the New York People with AIDS (PWA) Coalition and the first ED of Body Positive.

Michael used to come to NAN (National AIDS Network) board meeting and infuse during the meeting. He always wanted to remind us that HIV was about real people with real problems. It was because of Michael that I got accepted into the PWA community. He was the one that insisted that I attend organizing meetings that would later become the National Association of People with AIDS (NAPWA).

In those days, we didn’t have email, so Michael would write me these long diatribes about life, the movement, his frustrations and his joy. They were intimate letters between someone who was dying and someone who would remember. In many ways, they were the culmination of his life. He would close each letter with “Yours in the struggle”.

The call
I got the call. If you did AIDS work in the 80s or early 90s, you know the one. Its the call where they say you need to come to the hospital/hospice/home quickly because your friend is about to pass. When I got the call for Michael, I was in Washington and needed to rush to New York. I remember hopping that shuttle and praying that he would hold on so I could say goodbye. The taxi ride from LaGuardia to Saint Vincent’s was one of the longest in my life.

As I rushed down the hall, I saw Michael’s mother and sister sobbing. My heart sank, I thought he was gone. Just then Rona Affoumado came up to me and said “Oh God, you just made it. The family has just decided to pull the plug.” I wasn’t’ too late.

Rona escorted me into Michael’s room. It was all pumps and whistles from the many machines trying to keep him alive. It had that funny smell, the smell of death. Michael has been unconscious for the last 24 hours, the morphine had stopped the pain and allowed him to sleep. As they turned the machines off, there was a eerily silence. I held Michael’s hand and told him how much I loved him. Just then, his eyes opened and a single tear rolled down his cheek... and then he was gone.

The nurse would later tell me that his opening his eyes was probably just a reflex, but to me it was a sign. It was Michael saying goodbye, to remember him, and to honor his legacy. So I close all of my letters and emails with “Yours in the struggle”. I do it to honor his life and the lives of so many that we lost.

Yours in the struggle,

Paul Kawata
Executive Director
National Minority AIDS Council, 1931 13th St. NW, Washington, DC 20009-4432
Tel: 202.483.6622; Fax: 202.483.1135; Website: http://www.nmac.org