Teaching HIV Prevention

Teaching HIV prevention to women at Heavenly Valley while Macy, the local HIV educator, observes

Discussing proper use of condoms with my students in the shipping crate turned classroom at Heavenly Valley.

I've been working or volunteering in the field of HIV/AIDS since 1991. I had shown a passion for the topic when I was a senior in high school and wrote an opinion piece for my English class on Ryan White, the Indiana boy with hemophilia who contracted HIV through a blood transfusion. In a time period when ignorance and fear were rampant, parents at the elementary school rallied to have Ryan White banned from attending school, even though doctors said he posed no risk to other students. The story caught the attention of national media and Ryan White became a poster child for HIV/AIDS education, gaining support from celebrities like Elton John and Elizabeth Taylor. This stigmatizing judgment from people in a town a mere 75 miles away from my home town ignited a passion in me for HIV/AIDS education that endures today.

After graduating from Miami University in 1990, I moved to Binghamton, New York and, within a year, began volunteering for the local branch of People with AIDS Coalition. I'll never forget my first volunteer duty. A family in nearby Endicott, New York had been taking care of the wife's brother, a man in his late 30s sick with full blown AIDS. They called upon the People with AIDS Coalition to send over a few volunteers to stay with him while they attended a graduation ceremony in New Jersey. I eagerly volunteered for one 3-hour shift. I arrived and met the volunteer I would be replacing. She told me that he slept a lot, but seemed to enjoy being read to and eating grapes when he was awake. When he awoke from a nap, I realized what a challenge I had before me. He was emaciated, his eyes were glazed over and the few words he spoke were undiscernible. I was humbled in his presence and followed the directions of the previous volunteer: I read some headlines from an entertainment magazine and fed him bites of cold fruit. I was sad to learn that 2 weeks later he passed away.

This was to be my first of many instances where I took care of friends sick with AIDS. In the next 2 years, three close friends and a number of acquaintances died from illnesses associated with AIDS. Following these losses and a huge snow storm that dumped several feet of snow in Binghamton, my partner Jerial and I moved to Houston. We'd had enough and because of this, I took a break from HIV/AIDS volunteerism.

Four years later, in 1997, I began working as the HIV Services Coordinator for Streetwise Houston, a day shelter for homeless adolescents. I taught HIV prevention and distributed condoms to homeless kids, as well as facilitating support groups for several youth already infected with HIV. This reignited my passion, but it was challenging work in which I saw few results - kids continued to prostitute, use drugs and become infected with HIV. By the fall of 1998, I moved to another nonprofit agency, Montrose Clinic, and began teaching a 5-hour workshop called Next Step for people recently diagnosed with HIV. It was inspiring to take people devastated by a diagnosis through an educational course and have them come out the other side empowered to live a long, healthy life.

Even though its been many years since I facilitated a Next Step workshop, I remember all of the components from infectious body fluids to how the virus weakens the immune system and how the medications stop HIV from replicating. In my initial emails to Come Back Mission, I told them I could teach the course in South Africa, so of course this was worked into my agenda.

They put me in charge of the activities for the day at the Hadassah Centre for Women, so 17 young women and I gathered in the classroom for a day of HIV/AIDS education. I started off with some questions to assess their knowledge level around the subject and found that these were very well educated women in the room. I momentarily questioned how I was going to help expand their knowledge base, but proceeded anyway. I so much enjoyed teaching them the HIV/AIDS curriculum, especially showing them how HIV uses a CD4 immune system cell to reproduce and how the anti-retroviral medications (ARVs) stop the replication cycle. The young women were fascinated and asked so many intelligent questions, some of which challenged me to develop answers.

Because of my success at connecting with the young women at the Hadassah Centre, I was asked to teach some of my HIV/AIDS education to residents of Heavenly Valley, the shanty town of 40 or so shacks where Come Back Mission had a pre-school and women's empowerment center. The following day about 20 people, mostly women, gathered in a shipping container turned classroom to hear my presentation on HIV/AIDS. I knew their knowledge level would be lower and that their first language was Afrikaans, not English, so I adjusted my teaching style. They were slow to respond to my interactive style of teaching - I prefer not to be a lecturer - and know people learn more when they participate in the process, but they soon warmed up.

I became quite amused during the infectious body fluids part of my presentation. As an easy way to teach people how HIV is transmitted while at the same time dispelling myths, I ask participants to name as many body fluids as possible - saliva, tears, sweat, semen, blood, vaginal fluids, etc. Then we discuss which body fluids transmit HIV. The Heavenly Valley residents named 10 of the11 body fluids, but oddly enough they could not name the 11th one: breast milk. Why was it odd? Because during the first 20 minutes of my presentation, two different women were breast feeding their children in the class. (One woman even forgot to cover her breast after her baby had finished feeding, resulting in the first ever "wardrobe malfunction" during one of my presentations.) The women all laughed when I told them the one body fluid they were missing.

After that, the participants were very comfortable with me and began asking all kinds of questions and telling stories, some tragic...some inspiring. It was by far the most challenging presentation I've ever given, and at the same time the most rewarding. We ended the session with a discussion of how stigma against people living with HIV/AIDS harms everyone and leads to myths, misunderstandings, and more HIV infections. Knowing that HIV is so prevalent in their community, I challenged each of them to love and care for their friends of family members living with the disease and be a role model for their community.

The experience led me to the conclusion that I am still very passionate about HIV/AIDS education. While I no longer work in the field, I am determined to continue in some capacity. I am currently the chair of the Community Advisory Board for the Houston Medical Monitoring Project, an HIV/AIDS data collection project currently being conducted nationwide and funded by the CDC. I am also a member of the advisory commitee for LIVE Consortium, a Houston nonprofit dedicated to ending HIV/AIDS stigma. I have also recently agreed to be an advisor for a 6-month leadership training program for African-American gay, bisexual or transgendered young people, where HIV/AIDS is a key component.

A trip to the Joburg ER

 

 

My trip to South Africa was really fantastic with some amazing and humbling experiences, but I did have one pretty horrific experience while I was there. One Sunday evening, I was laying in bed reading and writing a blog post when I felt some gastrointestinal discomfort. Now, this kind of discomfort is not uncommon for me and I figured that my stomach was a little upset from something I ate, so I ate a couple of antacids to hopefully settle it. That didn't work. About 30 minutes after the first signs of discomfort, came the diarrhea. Then 30 minutes after that I started vomiting. For the next 6 hours, I rotated between one bodily function and the other, with a few winks of sleep in between. I tried drinking water, but couldn't keep anything down and, by 4 am, I knew I would have to go to the hospital to be hooked up to IV fluids. Because I am such a polite person (this was one instance when I shouldn't have been), I waited until my host family got up at 6 am instead of waking them earlier. As soon as I heard Beryl Jegels open her bedroom door, I whimpered her name and she came to my bedside. I told her I had been sick all night and that I needed to go to the Emergency Room.  

 

Beryl took me to nearby Netcare Mulbarton Hospital, part of the largest private hospital network in South Africa. I knew my American health insurance wouldn't do me any good in South Africa and I didn't have any traveler's insurance, but after 6 hours of extreme sickness, I didn't really care how much it costs. I handed Beryl my credit card and told her to get me in as quick as possible. Beryl returned and said it would cost 1100 South African Rand to be admited to the ER. I quickly grabbed my iPhone and accessed the app that converts currency. Hmmm...only $131. That seemed suspiciously cheap. There were probably some hidden costs that I would be charged on the back end, but still, I needed fluids in my body and didn't care what the cost!!

 

The hospital staff were fantastic! I was in an ER bed within 30 minutes and after numerous tries to find a vein in my weak, dehydrated body, the nurse had me hooked up to IV fluids within 60 minutes or so. A couple of very pleasant doctors attended to me, and after some basic bloodwork, said everything looked good except my kidney functions were low - a sign of dehydration. Assuming my sudden onset illness was caused by a bacteria - I'm sure it was either a food or waterborne bug - they prescribed me antibiotics, an antiemetic (to stop the nausea and vomiting), and an anti-diarrheal medication. They also prescribed me a 6-day course of probiotics, to restore the good bacteria to my system. American doctors often forget this important step in restoring the digestive tract to fully operational, so the South African doctors at Mulbarton Hospital get a thumbs up and thank you from me.

 

The other charges were Rand 375 for bloodwork and R225 for the prescriptions for a total Emergency Room visit of 1,700 South African Rand. My handy iPhone app converted this to a total US $206. Really?!! Two hundred and six dollars?!!! For a visit to the Emergency Room?!! How much does a visit to the ER cost out-of-pocket in the U.S.? I can't imagine with our dysfuntional healthcare system in the U.S. that it would be this inexpensive. I imagine the same visit would have cost at least $1,700, not Rand.

 

I am extremely appreciative of the fine care I received and the inexpensive cost. I was back at my host family's house by 12:30 pm and fast asleep by 1 pm. I slept until 7 pm, got up for a cup of soup, a piece of toast, a Powerade and several glasses of water and then was back in bed by 8:30 pm where I slept for another 12 hours. Thankfully, I was back on my feet within a day and my awful night of illness in the past.

Words, words, words

The English language is so full of words and countries where English is spoken often use different words than we would use in the U.S. I found a long list of English words in South Africa that differ from the ones we use. Some of these words are influenced by African languages or Afrikaans (a derivitive of Dutch) and some are similar to British terminology. Here's the list I came up with:

Robot = Traffic signal

Petrol = Gasoline

Jersey = Sweater

Sweets = Candy

Bonnet = Car hood

Boot = Car trunk

Indicator = Turn signal

Combie = mini-van

Is it? = Oh really?

Howzit? = How do you do?

Fetch = Pick up

Collect = Pick up

Braai = Barbeque

Hoot = Honk

Geezer = Water heater

Mince = Ground beef

Panel beater = Body Shop

See you just now = See you later

Tour of Soweto, Part I: The Nelson Mandela House

 

 

I had heard the term Soweto before. I'm not sure where, but I knew it was a locational term that referred to an area in South Africa. I took a pass/fail course in college on African History, so maybe I heard the term in a Miami University lecture hall in 1989. I am embarrassed to say that I did not pass that course - the only time in my 16 years of education that I failed to do so. In my defense, learning the history of an entire continent is not easy. Africa is a large continent with much diversity. Hearing about the cultures, the wars, and the peoples of hundreds of African tribes with unpronouncible names is quite the challenge; trying to understand imperialism by the Dutch, British, and French is quite overwhelming.

Maybe I should have paid a little better attention in that history course, for it wasn't until I read a South Africa travel book prior to coming that Soweto defined a large area in southwest Johannesburg made up of dozens of neighborhoods where only black South Africans were permitted to live during the Apartheid era. And, where I thought that Soweto was an African word, maybe derived from the Xhosa or Zulu language, I came to find out it stood for South Western Townships. New York City has it's SOHO, San Francisco it's SOMA and Joburg has it's Soweto. But unlike SOHO and SOMA, Soweto has a turbulent history.

Originally, Soweto was established as a municipal housing settlement for workers who needed to be close to town. In his autobiography Long Walk to Freedom, Nelson Mandela describes the Soweto house he and his first wife, Evelyn, moved into in 1946: "The house itself was identical to hundreds of others built on postage-stamp-size plots on dirt roads. It had the same standard tin roof, the same cement floor, a narrow kitchen, and a bucket toilet in back. Although there were steetlamps outside, we used kerosene lamps inside as the homes were not yet electrified. The bedroom was so small that a double bed took up almost the entire floor space....It was the very opposite of grand, but it was my first true home of my own and I was mightily proud. A man is not a man until he has a house of his own. I did not know then that it would be the only residence that would be entirely mine for many, many years."

I was lucky enough to step foot in this exact home that Nelson Mandela shared, first with Evenlyn, and then with his second wife, Winnie, during a personalized tour of a small portion of Soweto with Cheryl Pillay, executive director of Come Back Mission. Cheryl is a teacher by training and includes a Soweto tour with every volunteer who gives their time to Come Back Mission. She began the tour by driving down what was the one and only road leading into the townships where, by the 1970s, over 1 million blacks were forced to reside due to racial separation polocies of Apartheid. Really? One road for one million people? Ahh, but so much easier for the white-controlled government to shut down the road and keep people confined. Turning down a few recently paved side streets with lovely new brick sidewalks - the result of infrastructure development in preparation for an onslaught of tourists for the 2010 World Cup - we entered the Orlando West neighborhood to No. 8115 Orlando West Street: the Nelson Mandela house.

Located across from the Mandela Family Restaurant, a local favorite still owned by his ex-wife and activist, Winnie Mandela, No. 8115 is now a tourist destination with a modern structure built adjacent to the Mandela house where a small gift shop and ticket booth are located. I happily paid the entrance fee for me and my friend Corrien (she received a discount as she is South African) and eagerily listened as the student tour guide explained the history of South African racial segregation in the tiny courtyard. We followed her around to the front of the house where she pointed out that the tree planted on the corner was where the umbilical cords of Nelson's children are buried. Before entering the red brick house, we passed by an oversized black-and-white photo of a young Nelson Mandela standing on the porch of his home in March 1961, his dog hugging him as if he hadn't seen his owner in a long time. Instead, the dog chillingly knew that he wouldn't ever see his owner again for Nelson's trial for treason would either send him to prison or underground into hiding. It was the last time Nelson Mandela stood on the steps of No. 8115 Orlando West until his famous release from prison in 1990 after the end of Apartheid.

The interior of the home was indeed small - just three tiny rooms plus a shower room. While I could clearly see the size, imagine how cold the concrete floor would have been in winter and how loud the house must have been when a summer storm rained down on the tin roof, I could not picture Nelson raising his family here. The house was too cluttered with Mandela's honorary university degrees, awards and memorabilia. I would have preferred to see the house in the state that Winnie Mandela left it in. That withstanding, it was a privilege to stand in the former house of one of the greatest leaders of the 20th century. And I love the photo of me on the back stoop resting my hand on the same spigot that Winnie Mandela is using in the black-and-white photo adjacent to me.

Tour of Soweto, Part II: The Hector Pieterson Memorial and Museum

 

After touring the Nelson Mandela home at No. 8115 Orlando West, Cheryl, Corrien and I continued on foot up the street just a few blocks past Orlando West High School, the site of the 1976 riots. I missed this historical moment in student upheaval against racial segregation. I don't ever remember hearing about it in the news or learning about it in school - not even the African history course I failed in college. It happened on June 16, 1976. Maybe Americans were too wrapped up in red, white and blue stars and stripes in preparation for the bicentenial celebrations that peaked on Independence Day a little over 2 weeks after the riots. Maybe Americans didn't care much what happened to black Africans on the other side of the world. Or maybe I was just too young to be paying attention to world events. Regardless, I'm glad I know now.

To understand the riots, one must understand Apartheid, a series of legistative policies initiated in the 1940s and 50s by white Afrikaners to separate racial groups. Afrikaners are descendants of the original Dutch settlers who were pushed out of Capetown and the eastern Cape by the British and established settlements in the western parts of what is now the Republic of South Africa. Afrikaners speak Afrikaans, a language derived mostly from Dutch. Apartheid labeled all South Africans by race: white, Indian, coloured, and black. Whites included Afrikaners, British, Dutch and other European descendants and immigrants. Indians had long been migrating to South African from their nearby homeland across the Indian Ocean. Coloureds are mixed race people, many of whom are descended from Afrikaners and their black slaves, and speak both English and the Dutch-derived language of Afrikaans. Blacks are native Africans and speak English as well as a variety of African languages such as Xhosa and Zulu.

Throughout Apartheid, laws were continually instituted that further divided these four groups. Some laws forced people to sell their homes for a pittance to the government and move into all black townships or all coloured communities. Several of the Come Back Mission staff, most of whom are close to me in age, can remember having to be forced to move from nice homes or beautiful farms, to small, often run-down houses in cramped neighborhoods. I can't imagine! It's all quite similar to the reservations set up by the American government for Native Americans, but it all happened in the late 20th century AFTER Nazi Germany rounded up Jews in concentration camps. Unfortunately, history does continue to repeat itself.

In 1976, the Apartheid goverment decided to force the already failing black schools to use Afrikaans as the primary language for instruction of maths and sciences. Black children spoke English and some were lucky enough to be able to read and write in English. They would only fall further behind in their education if, all of a sudden, instructors had to teach in Afrikaans. While their parents' generation was grateful to the whites for education and employment, these young black men and women knew how important education was and had grown angry with Apartheid. On June 16, 1976, an estimated 20,000 Soweto middle and high-school students boycotted classes and peacefully gathered in the middle of the school day in front of Orlando High school, just a few short blocks from the Nelson Mandela home. I read a street sign that described the day:

"June 16, 1976 began as a cold winter's morning like any other in Soweto. The signature pall of smoke hung over the dusty township streets. Parents waited patiently for buses and trains to take them to their jobs in the 'white' city. Inside the morning assemblies, however, someting very different was happening. Students began singing the banned national anthem, 'Nkosi Sikelel iAfrika', instead of the usual Lord's Prayer. Spirits were high as thousands of uniformed students then marched out of their school gates and threaded their way through the streets of Soweto carrying simple cardboard banners that they had hidden rolled up in their blazers with slogans such as 'To Hell with Afrikaans' and 'This Is Our Day'. As planned, the students converged in front of Phefeni Junior Secondary School to pledge their solidarity with this school that had been on boycott the longest. They had planned to proceed in a column to Orlando Stadium where...students leaders would address the students and break off the march.

"Between 5,000 and 6,000 students had gathered their by 10:30am. The throng of youngsters blocked the entire Vilakazi Street. More were on their way. 'The placard and stick-waving pupils outside the school's meshed fence converged like two rivers of protest in an emotional embrace' said journalist Lucy Gough. There was excitement in the air and the students smiled with determination as they sang songs of defiance. The 19-year-old leader of teh South African Students Movement...jumped on top of a tractor outside Orlando High and shouted to the assembled crowd: 'Brothers and sisters, I appeal to you - keep calm and cool. We have just received a report that the police are coming. Don't taunt them, don't do anything to them. Be cool and calm. We are not fighting'."

It wasn't long before white police officers were on the scene. While opinions still differ as to who started the violence, the police were armed with guns and tear gas and began using both on the unarmed students. In the melee more than 400 black students* were brutally shot and killed dead in the streets of Soweto by white police officers wielding their Apartheid power. Thousands were wounded and thousands more were detained, tortured, charged and imprisoned. Thousands more are said to have fled the country, fearing for their lives or for spending their lives in prison.

One 13-year-old boy named Hector Pieterson became the martyr of the riots. While not the first child to be killed nor the youngest, a photograph of Hector's limp and bloody body being carried by Mbuyisa Makhubu, an older black student, and accompanied by Hector's emotionally distraught sister was printed in newspapers and made its way around the world. Cheryl led me and Corrien down the same street that Mbuyisa carried Hector's lifeless body from Orlando High School to safety. The buildings that were on the site where Mbuyisa sought refuge are no longer present and have been replaced with a beautiful marble memorial with a river of water running underfoot to represent the tears and blood shed on the streets of Soweto on that fateful date in 1976. The Hector Pieterson Memorial was created "To honour the youth who gave their lives in the struggle for freedom and democracy" and stands next to the Hector Pieterson Museum, a collection of historical photos, documents, and videos that gives a better understanding of not only the events of that day, but also contextualizes them in a presentation on racial segregation and discrimination under the Apartheid rule.

*Internet research shows that death toll estimates greatly vary ranging from 23 to 700.

Tour of Soweto, Part III: Freedom Tower and Walter Sisulu Square

 

Following a walk through the Hector Pieterson Museum, we hopped in the car and drove to Kliptown, a bustling downtown area of Soweto complete with street vendors selling everything from fruits and vegetables to live chickens and even haircuts. A large, two-winged modern building dominates the area and it's V-shape creates an enormous brick-paved courtyard between the two wings. The building houses a conference center, museum, retail space, commercial offices and the Soweto Hotel, a 48-room 4-star hotel. At one end of the building, where the V-shape meets, is the Walter Sisulu monument. Walter Sisulu was a South African anti-apartheid activitst and member of the African National Congress (ANC) along with Nelson Mandela and Oliver Tambo. Like Mandela, Sisulu spent 26 years in prison, mostly on Robben Island off the coast from Capetown, for treason. Consisting of 10 concrete "freedom" columns - 5 are made of black concrete with white aggregate and 5 are made of white concrete with black aggregate - the monument represents the new South Africa where black and white people stand together in harmony. Although I didn't see it at night, apparently the columns are illuminated in the colors of the South African flag.

In the center of the courtyard between the V-shaped modern buildings sits a cone-shaped brick "smokestack," a monument to the Freedom Charter of 1955. The open-air structure contains a large marble circle, divided into 10 pie-shaped pieces inscribed with the 10 pillars of the Freedom Charter. Here's the history of the Freedom Charter: In 1955 the ANC sent out 50,000 volunteers into townships and the countryside to collect 'freedom demands' from the people of South Africa. The results were synthesized into a final document by ANC leaders and was officially adopted by roughly 3,000 delegates on June 25, 1955 at a congress of people on this site in Kliptown. Shortly after the delegates shouted their approval of all 10 pillars, the meeting was broken up by police. Nelson Mandela, one of the delegates, only escaped the police by disguising himself as a milkman!

The 1955 Freedom Charter:

"We, the People of South Africa, declare for all our country and the world to know that South Africa belongs to all who live it it, black and white, and that no government can justly claim authority unless it is based on the will of all of the people; that our people have been robbed of their birthright to land, liberty and peace by a form of government founded on injustice and inequality; that our country will never be prosperous or free until all our people live in brotherhood, enjoying equal rights and opportunities; that only a democratic state, based on the will of all the people, can secure to all their birthright without distinction of colour, race sex or belief; and therefore, we, the people of South Africa, black and white together equals, countrymen and brothers adopt this Freedom Charter; and we pledge ourselves to strive together, sparing neither strength nor courage, until the democratic changes here set out have been won." The 10 pillars of the Freedom Charter:

The People Shall Govern!
All National Groups Shall have Equal Rights!
The People Shall Share in the Country's Wealth!
The Land Shall be Shared Among Those Who Work It!
All Shall be Equal Before the Law!
All Shall Enjoy Human Rights!
There Shall be Work and Security
The Doors of Learning and Culture Shall be Opened!
There Shall be Houses, Security and Comfort!
There Shall be Peace and Friendship!

This Freedom Charter was obviously ignored by the minority whites in power and for the next 35 years the Apartheid government became more and more strict, instituting policies that further divided people based on their race. After the fall of Apartheid in 1990, the new Constitution of South Africa included in its text many of the demands called for in the Freedom Charter, particularly regarding equality of race and language.

National Women's Day: Part 1

Every year South Africans celebrate National Women's Day on August 9. Schools are closed. Government offices shut down. Even many businesses are closed for the national holiday. In a world where women are still oppressed, it's awesome that a country celebrates female power. The holiday commemorates the day in 1956 when 20,000 women marched in Pretoria to voice their objections to the Urban Area Act of 1950, also known as the "pass" act. This legislation required any native black or coloured person to carry an identification document on them at all times. Without the pass, one could easily be detained in jail. These 20,000 women strong marched to the prime minister's office in downtown Pretoria and left a petition with 100,000 signatures of Africans who felt the law was discriminatory and unjust. They stood outside the building, waiting for the prime minister to acknowledge them, singing an African protest song translated to "Now that you have touched the women, you have struck a rock."

I was honored to be in South Africa for this year's Women's Day and participate in the activities planned by Come Back Mission. I awoke early and joined my South African "sister," Corrien who was tasked with picking up 12 or so female Come Back Mission volunteers in the combie (or mini-bus in South African speak) to transport them to the organization's rural recovery center, a.k.a., the farm. Our first stop was in Kliptown to pick up Auntie Grace (posing with me in the photo above), beautifully dressed in her traditional African attire complete with decorative face paint. Before I left Houston, I had packed a separate suitcase full of donations, including a bag of plastic beads that Rob had leftover from his crafting days before I met him. Corrien had given the beads to Grace to see what she could do with them, and once on the combie, Grace presented her handiwork. I was amazed that a bag full of colorful beads could produce such gloriously beaufiful necklaces in only the matter of a few days.

After picking up the remainder of our female passengers and driving 30 minutes to the farm, we all disembarked from the combie and joined the others that had already arrived, as well as they young women who lived on the farm and participated in the Hadassah Women's Center substance abuse recovery program. The few men present were outside busy cooking traditional African potjie (pronounced poy-kee), a meat and vegetable stew cooked in a three-footed, heavy iron kettle over hot coals. Meanwhile, the women gathered on the brick patio under the warm, winter African sun for tea and coffee, muffins, fresh fruit and juice.

Just after noon, all of the women (and me) gathered for the program in the large living room of the main farm house. Auntie Lucia, a nurse at a local hospital, spoke about HIV/AIDS and the stigma that cripples much of the community. Her words moved many people to tears, especially one of the young women in the recovery program who had recently been diagnosed with HIV. After a brief candle-lighting ceremony and prayer to remember those who have died of AIDS, anyone who was "living positively" was encouraged to come forward and speak from their heart about living with the disease. The young woman who recently learned she is HIV positive bravely spoke about her struggles coming to terms with her diagnosis and her quest to recovery from an addiction to drugs.