Part I: A Trojan in a Warehouse

The Road to New Orleans

The hospice—the word itself carried a clean, clinical finality. In Birmingham, my work was a volunteer role in private homes, a relentless, solitary march against the inevitable. But I had seen the structure of necessity take hold in other cities: the group home. These weren't mere medical facilities; they were built as a direct answer to injustice. Too often, the residents were men who had been abandoned—rejected by partners, cast out by family. They were there because they had nowhere else to fall.

It was this heartbreaking, yet righteous, resistance that fueled us. The development of AIDS hospices seemed almost coincidental across various U.S. metro areas, but the first with which I became directly involved was Project Lazarus in the Faubourg Marigny. The name itself—Lazarus—carried a terrible irony. The biblical figure was raised from the dead, restored to life. We, on the other hand, were building homes for men who were already marked for death. But perhaps the effort was not for the restoration of life, but in the restoration of dignity when life had been stripped away.

This heartbreaking necessity drove us. We were not isolated; our struggle was a shared map drawn across the entire South, city by city.

At AIDS Service Organization (ASO) fundraisers in other cities across the South, we became known as the Men of Birmingham—or MOB. Groups of friends from across the South recognized our attendance, contributions and our distinct group dynamic with these names—like the New Orleans Boys (or NOB), and the Men of Memphis (MOM). Most all of us were just scraping by, working shifts for gasoline and cocktail money, but groups of us traveled to support the charitable efforts of the others.

This particular year, my blue, 1976 Volvo 4-door station wagon, a hearse-like vessel, became my chariot of righteous absurdity. New Orleans, French Quarter; seven men, one hotel room, trading the floor for the walk-in closet, just to be present at Halloween New Orleans to benefit Project Lazarus.

Our hand-made Trojan soldier costumes took us weeks to make - cutting vinyl, burning fingers with hot glue guns. They were extravagant, not because they were beautiful, but because they were so well-coordinated – and witty. This year's double entendre, "Play It Safe—Take a Trojan to Bed!", pinned onto our breastplates, was our offering—a plea, a joke, and a challenge all at once.

We were not just raising money for the cause in Birmingham; we were investing in the brotherhood. A tireless commitment to the broader development of the ASO’s around the South. The success of Halloween New Orleans—now over four decades strong and still supporting men and women living with HIV/AIDS—was our collective, yearly proof that the effort, the sacrifice, was valid. It was our crusade.

The Warehouse Costume Party

I was now twenty-something, a kid who had fled to Birmingham years before at 19, just to learn the rudimentary mechanics of being a gay man. But New Orleans, with its intoxicating blend of European decay and decadent lifestyle, was both a shock to the system, and fascinating! The scale of the Saturday night costume party, held in the massive, echoing warehouse on the Mississippi, was the physical manifestation of a world I only faintly grasped. It was a mass of humanity, yes, but a mass with a singular mission—to meet, to remember, and to fund the necessary structures of survival.

My previous existence had been mostly defined by the borders of Alabama. My mind, my empathy, my self-awareness—it was all localized. But here, shoulder-to-shoulder with thousands of men from Atlanta, Houston, Miami, New York – and places I’d never heard of – the map of my life abruptly, profoundly, broadened. This was where the brotherhood lived. The shared experience, the dark humor, the tireless commitment that transcended our state lines. It was a baptism in a new, necessary kind of belonging. It changed me; it forced the realization that I had a place in the world far beyond the confines I had known.

And then, in the midst of this overwhelming, collective roar, our eyes connected.

He stood in clean linen, a stark, quiet contrast to my ludicrous helmet and vinyl skirt. The noise of the three thousand men and women, the music, the laughter—it all receded, becoming a distant hum. Charlie. 

It began with a look, a small, knowing upturn of a lip, in a costume-filled warehouse. He simply said with a twinkle in his eyes - and that smile, "A Trojan. I like the branding."

The challenge was delivered. My world was broadening. The personal work begins. The narrative of doing was over; the narrative of becoming had started.