When my brother died of AIDS 26 years ago this week, there were no celebratory Pride flags waving, no rainbow-clad corporate logos flooding social media with support. Instead, on that June day, I had to peruse a scant list of crematoriums willing to burn his virus-ravaged body, then flew back home with a plastic container holding his ashes between my feet.
When my brother died of AIDS 26 years ago this week, there were no celebratory Pride flags waving, no rainbow-clad corporate logos flooding social media with support. Instead, on that June day, I had to peruse a scant list of crematoriums willing to burn his virus-ravaged body, then flew back home with a plastic container holding his ashes between my feet.
