A Community Coming Together: HIV/AIDS Activism in Kentucky 

FEATURE PHOTO: Back of Postcard from Frank Close to Bob Morgan, July 14, 1983, Collection of Faulkner Morgan Archive.

In 1983, Lexington artist Frank Close sent a postcard from Lexington to the artist Robert Morgan, who was living in Florida at the time. The first line, casually, reads “shall we start to worry about AIDS?” The postcard, almost prophetic, depicts the crypt of Capuchin monks in Rome. As if Close’s postcard was a sign of what was to come, the bodies did indeed pile up. Queer people across Kentucky would be lost and, while the exact numbers are still not known, it is certainly in the thousands. 

Going back a few years to the 1970s, after the Stonewall riots, the sky really seemed the limit for LGBTQ+ people. The tides had begun to shift, and the queer community was demanding space in society. But as the 1980s progressed, a dark cloud was on the horizon. At first it seemed so distant, just a blip on the screen—a rare disease, “a gay cancer,” popping up in major American cities. 

When we talk about the devastating impact of the HIV/AIDS epidemic, the story is often told through urban centers like New York City and San Francisco. However, this impact reached throughout the country and was just as prevalent and crippling here in the Bluegrass state—perhaps even more so. At the Faulkner Morgan Archive, we have been particularly keen to record the stories of this lost generation.

 

At this time, though, there was this a deep connection between Kentucky and those major metropolitan centers. Many queer individuals moved out of Kentucky in pursuit of their dreams, and ended up in the “gayborhoods” of cities like NYC. Shea Metcalf, who moved to New York City in the 1970s, grew up in Lancaster. Through his modeling career, he soon became friends with legendary artists such as Paul Cadmus, Keith Haring, Jean-Michel Basquiat, and Andy Warhol. Being in NYC during the height of the epidemic, though, Shea sadly passed away in 1991 due to AIDS complications, preceded by his boyfriend Drew Holbrook in 1990, and was later buried in his hometown. 

 

 

Local queer folks, even those who participated very little in earlier gay liberation movements, become extraordinarily politicized in the midst of the devastation of AIDS. Friends became caretakers, and strangers became patients. Darryl Brannock was the first Lexingtonian to go public with HIV/AIDS and, in 1986, was likely the first Kentuckian to begin receiving AZT medications. 

 

 

The HIV/AIDS epidemic was especially hard on communities of color due to the overlapping of homophobia and racism. One local artist, Charles Williams, dealt with this firsthand. Born in Blue Diamond, Kentucky, Williams worked avidly on paintings, drawings, assemblages, sculptures, and furniture until his untimely death in 1998, the result of AIDS-related complications and starvation. Along with the difficulty of living with HIV/AIDS, there was also simply a lack of widespread support for those suffering. Those in our community who became caretakers were stretched thin trying to battle the overwhelming devastation of the crisis.

 

The LGBTQ community of Kentucky mourned their dead, both near and far, and fought the disease as best they could. Despite these important and sometimes life-saving efforts, Lexington was also a difficult place to be during AIDS. The local police began enforcing the sodomy laws in a much more draconian fashion—a direct response to the local fear of AIDS. 

 

 

In 1986, during an entrapment sting in the back parking lot of The Bar Complex in Lexington (the oldest continuous LGBTQ gathering place in Kentucky), numerous men were arrested, including a young nurse from Stanton —Jeffery Wasson. Wasson refused to quietly go along, challenging his arrest. Although his case lasted seven years, defended by a group of local lawyers, Wasson’s defiance led to the overturn of Kentucky’s sodomy laws, making us the first state to do so after the advent of AIDS. 

As an inadvertent result of the HIV/AIDS epidemic, there was a major mobilization that happened in the LGBTQ+ community. Before the late 1980s and early 1990s, the idea of being part of an “LGBTQ+” community was not an understood part of being a queer person. However, in the face of such a devastating disease that showed the disdain of the U.S. government, queer people realized that no one else would care for them except each other. There was a huge shift with the queer community coming together which was not there before. Having to literally fight for your lives does that to a group of people. 

Grassroots activism began to turn into official organizations and nonprofits, many of which are still helping Kentucky communities today. Political conversations grew, especially the desire for basic protections under the law, such as not being fired or thrown out of housing because of one’s sexual orientation or gender expression.  

 

 

After years of activism throughout the 1990s, Louisville became the first city in Kentucky to protect its gay and lesbian citizens through the Fairness Ordinance, passed on January 26, 1999. Although the ordinance did not protect gender expression for trans Kentuckians until later, it was a major step in LGBTQ+ rights. A few months later, on July 8, Lexington became the second city in Kentucky to pass a Fairness Ordinance, and the first to include trans people in the ordinance. Now, a growing number of cities across the Commonwealth have passed Fairness ordinances protecting queer Kentuckians . 

These stories not only represent the national and international connections of Kentucky’s queer community, but are also a testament to all those who were lost in the AIDS crisis. The modern successes in HIV/AIDS prevention serve as a celebration of their legacy. We are now the bearers of their stories and the continuation of their activism.