My Turn by Lisa M. Browder

In the mid-eighties, when the AIDS epidemic slammed into town and changed a whispered issue into a polarizing debate, I was a showgirl in Las Vegas—a member of a soon-to-be shunned population known as entertainers. The effect of the cold shoulder from mainstream society was to splinter a tight-knit group who, up to that point, had always banded together to fight conservative, uncomprehending “regular” folks. Here was the problem: The discrepancies about what did and didn’t cause AIDS forced dancers to pick their own versions of the truth, to cull the “facts” that suited them. Outside scorn and inside confusion pitted us against each other.

I wanted to see this AIDS thing as the new flu, as something doctors had over-dramatized. Why, there would be a pill for it any day. I, like most of my dancer friends, only listened to about half of doctors’ admonitions, thinking them overly cautious. This “epidemic” was probably more of the same. Not to worry. I stuck my head in the sand and ignored it.

And then all hell broke loose. The backstage dressing rooms buzzed with the nasty rumor that one of our own, out for days with a “cold,” had AIDS. Upon his return, many fellow performers took a wide berth around him between dance numbers. I had read stories of gay men who refused to admit they had AIDS because once they did, they couldn’t get medical treatment and they lost jobs, friends, houses, etc. I knew that if I were in that position, I’d probably do exactly the same thing to keep my life and my support system from unraveling. Nevertheless, I was scared and had to fight the urge to follow the fold.

It was about this time that the management of the show brought in a doctor to talk to the cast calmly and sensibly about AIDS. Unfortunately, there were many discrepancies in what doctors believed to be true at the time and the answers were not reassuring. Few were swayed from their inscrutable positions.

People who hadn’t seen the inside of a church in years suddenly rivaled Jim Bakker in their sanctimonious sermons—rivaled his piousness as well, it should be noted. With no sure answers, any theory garnered devotees and the cast split into those who wanted to support friends in trouble and those who decided that God was punishing them. Those “against” railed that where there was smoke there was fire. Trouble was, they smelled sulphur wafting from the hands of every gay male within miles and, by extension, every friend of a friend of a friend….

More than a few Puritanical Faiths and Hopes (not a single Charity) burst out of the glittery rhinestones, damning the perceived gay lifestyle. And me? Well, I was torn.  I couldn’t tell you what I did want to do, but  I sure as hell knew what I didn’t want to do—I didn’t want to turn my back on my own. I wanted a compromise between

reckless disregard and total avoidance. Besides, wouldn’t avoidance put me in the pulpit with those who condemned all entertainers as wild and promiscuous? That would make me a hypocrite. In my travels overseas in the early eighties, I had slept my way across three continents with nary a thought to disease. Were my  partners less promiscuous? Hell, was I less promiscuous?

My stance was finally clinched because of the behavior of a showgirl I’ll call Ann. I watched her cart in a supply of bottled water so she wouldn’t have to drink from the water fountain. Nothing personal. She also washed her hands after every dance number in which she had to touch any of the men. The sweat, you know.

I watched her stand in the wings before entrances and chit chat with male dancers, her body arched back like a sapling in the wind, her head slightly turned, as if their very breath spewed lethal germs. I also watched the reaction. It had taken months and years to nourish relationships into friendships, replete with shared laughs, secrets, and emotional trust; it took seconds to destroy them. Their eyes registered pain, despair and betrayal. I refused to walk that path.

If asked today, I’m sure those same people would defend their positions as pragmatic and mine as foolhardy. Looking back at how much we didn’t know, they may be right. But this much I can tell you: You can be scared and still be compassionate.

Lisa M. Browder spent thirteen years as a dancer before joining the ranks of the “regular” folks. She has floundered her way through several careers in the business world and is currently working on her first novel. She is a regular contributor to Dancer magazine.

January 2004