The AIDS Memorial Quilt

It's October 15th, 1982, at a White House press briefing in Washington.

Lester King Salming, a 54-year-old reporter, sits at the front of a crowded press pool.

Standing at the podium is President Ronald Reagan's press secretary, Larry Speaks.

Around the room, reporters gossip and trade locker room banter about the current political goings on.

But Lester doesn't join in.

He's thinking about the question he's about to ask and the response he's probably going to receive.

There's a mysterious new virus that has been recently declared an epidemic by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

Little is known about the illness, except that it seems to primarily affect homosexual men.

After remarks from the press secretary, it's time for questions.

When Lester is called on, he stands, clears his throat and asks his question.

A smattering of surprise or even derisive laughter spreads through the room.

Lester's considered something of an old crank here in Washington, and he's used to being laughed at.

But on this occasion, he believes his question should be taken in earnest.

Press Secretary Speaks mocks Lester's question.

His colleague's laughter feels inappropriate when people are dying.

So Lester strikes a slightly different tone.

Unable to get a serious answer out of the press secretary, Lester will move on to subjects deemed more worthy of the president's attention.

But over the course of the next 15 years, the AIDS epidemic will become a full-blown crisis.

By 1985, more than 5,000 people will be dead from AIDS in the US alone, and many will blame the rising death count on government indifference.

Soon, activists will begin campaigning for increased funding for AIDS research and an end to the stigmatization of those living with the disease.

In 1987, that campaign will receive public recognition on an unprecedented scale thanks to an enormous community art project.

Composed of 2,000 individual panels, each inscribed with the name of a person lost to AIDS, the National AIDS Memorial Quilt will be viewed by more than 15 million people and raise millions of dollars for AIDS research after its unveiling on October 11, 1987.

From Noiser and Airship, I'm Lindsay Graham, and this is History Daily.

History is made every day.

On this podcast, Every Day, we tell the true stories of the people and events that shaped our world.

Today is October 11th, 1987, the AIDS Memorial Quilt.

It's November 1980 in Los Angeles, seven years before the AIDS Memorial Quilt will be unveiled.

Inside his office at the UCLA School of Medicine, Dr.

Michael Gottlieb flips through a report on the effects of radiation on the immune system of mice.

The 32-year-old immunologist is three months into his assistant professorship here at UCLA, but already he's growing restless.

Michael is ambitious.

He dreams of publishing important articles in prestigious medical journals, and there's only so much he can learn from mice.

Just when he thinks he might drift off from boredom, Michael is shaken from his reverie by a knock on his office door.

The eager face of one of his residents appears around the doorframe and says, Sorry to disturb you, Dr.

Gottlieb, but I think I found something that might be of interest.

The resident hands Michael a report on a patient suffering from a yeast infection in the throat, an infection so severe that the patient is struggling to breathe.

Michael frowns.

These yeast infections can sometimes be life-threatening in newborn babies or in cancer patients weakened by chemotherapy, but this patient is an otherwise healthy 31-year-old man.

When Michael examines the patient, the mystery deepens.

The man is suffering from Pneumocystis Pneumonia, or PCP, a lung disease rarely found in people with fully functioning immune systems.

Michael takes a blood sample to the laboratory.

He wants to check the patient's T helper cells, white blood cells that activate the body's response to dangerous microbes and send the chemical instructions needed to create antibodies.

To Michael's astonishment, the patient's blood sample contains no T helper cells.

Michael is perplexed.

He racks his brain, asking himself what disease attacks and kills specific blood cells.

He consults with colleagues, but none of his fellow doctors have any idea what the patient might be suffering from.

Michael spends the next few months poring obsessively over books and charts, researching obscure immunological illnesses, but nothing can explain the patient's condition.

Then three months later, another patient walks into the UCLA hospital, exhibiting the same symptoms.

Like the first patient, the second case is a young man in his 30s with an otherwise clean bill of health.

And then soon a third and fourth case of the mysterious disease arrives at the hospital.

By now, Michael recognizes the symptoms, dramatic weight loss, fevers and swollen lymph nodes.

But something else links all four patients, something that Michael previously assumed was coincidental, but now he suspects is critical.

They're all gay men.

It's not uncommon for epidemics to break out in certain geographic locales or even among certain professions, but for a disease to be contained to a group linked only by sexual preference is unheard of.

Alarmed by the rate at which this disease is spreading through the gay community, Michael phones his old med school friend, Wayne Shendera, now an epidemiologist with the Los Angeles County Department of Public Health.

Michael tells Wayne there seems to be something strange happening to the immune system of gay men in the county, and Wayne agrees to look into it.

Soon, Wayne reports back to Michael with a worrying update.

A 29-year-old man in Santa Monica died last month from PCP, the same lung disease detected in the four patients at UCLA.

Michael hangs up the phone, the color draining from his face.

With five cases and now one death, this epidemic is threatening to spiral out of control.

Michael phones up the prestigious New England Journal of Medicine and explains the urgency of publishing a report on the emergence of a new immunological disease affecting gay men.

But the editor tells Michael that before any article can be published, it would need to be reviewed by a panel of experts, a process that can take three months.

Michael doesn't think he can wait that long to alert the medical community to the epidemic.

He fears more lives will be lost if they don't take immediate action.

So he decides to submit his report to a different publication.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention's weekly newsletter is not as prestigious as the New England Journal of Medicine, but the CDC newsletter is widely circulated among hospitals, and most importantly, it will publish his report immediately.

Soon Michael submits his report entitled Pneumocystis Pneumoniae in Homosexual Men, Los Angeles.

And on May 5th, the report appears in the CDC newsletter.

But when Michael flicks to page 2 to read his article, he notes with frustration that the CDC have removed his suggestion that the disease primarily affects homosexual men.

He suspects that this was to avoid a backlash from the gay community or to avoid homophobic prejudice from the medical establishment.

But Michael is concerned that such a hesitation to speak frankly and directly about the epidemic will be a sign of things to come.

And soon Michael's fears will be borne out.

The disease will become known as Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome or AIDS.

And as AIDS spreads, neither the mainstream media nor the political establishment will treat the crisis with the seriousness it deserves.

Instead, they will dismiss the disease as a plague that only affects the gay community and choose to ignore the emergency until it will be too late.

It's January 14th, 1982 in San Francisco, five years before the AIDS Memorial Quilt is open to the public.

Swirling fog blows in off the Pacific as Cleve Jones climbs the front steps of the University of California Medical Center.

Cleve is 27 years old.

He's a political activist and a prominent member of San Francisco's thriving gay community.

He spends his days lobbying lawmakers in the California State Assembly and his nights partying on Castro Street, the heart of San Francisco's queer district.

On this chilly winter's afternoon, Cleve has come to meet one of the city's first victims of what has been dubbed in the press as gay cancer.

Recently, reports have emerged in the media of various immune deficiency diseases affecting gay men.

Cleve doesn't know whether or not to believe the reports.

After all, gay cancer sounds like something out of a homophobe's fairy tale, not a legitimate medical emergency.

So when Cleve was invited to the medical center to meet the patient, the young activist didn't hesitate.

He wants to see whether the reports are true or not.

At the center, Cleve is greeted by Dr.

Marcus Cohnant, the dermatologist who invited him here.

Moments later, Marcus introduces Cleve to an emaciated young man lying in a hospital bed.

The man recently contracted Kaposi sarcoma, a type of skin cancer, and one of the various immune deficiency diseases rampaging through gay communities in California and New York.

The man is little more than a skeleton.

He's covered in purple lesions and hooked up to dozens of plastic tubes.

Cleve can't hide his horror.

He rushes out of the hospital in shock, left in little doubt that this new illness is very real indeed.

That night, Marcus takes Cleve out for dinner.

The doctor explains the severity of the situation and the worrying lack of concern shown by the government.

Some scientists are calling the highly infectious disease gay-related immune deficiency, or GRID.

But Marcus is certain the disease isn't exclusive to gay people.

He believes the virus can affect any human body, no matter the sexuality.

Marcus looks at Cleve, his face etched with foreboding, and says, this is going to be a world-class disaster, and nobody's paying attention.

Cleve just stares into his vodka tonic and mutters, we're all dead.

Marcus understands Cleve's doom and gloom, but he doesn't let such pessimism deter him.

The doctor suggests that they start a foundation, committing to spreading awareness about this new disease and petitioning the government to invest in research.

Marcus says that the difficult part is recruiting support from the gay community.

Many gay people resent the alarmist tone of Marcus' message and refuse to listen to the scientific advice.

That's why Marcus has approached Cleve to enlist his help getting through to San Francisco's gay community.

After a brief hesitation, Cleve agrees to join in Marcus' efforts and soon he's working, organizing the gay community, speaking with local government officials and handing out leaflets, raising awareness about the disease, how it is transmitted sexually and how the virus attacks the immune system, leaving the body unable to fight off other disease.

By September, 1982, the disease has been officially renamed Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome and Cleve and Marcus' foundation is duly entitled the San Francisco AIDS Foundation.

But over the next few months, the disease tears through San Francisco.

The epicenter of the virus is the Castro, the city's gay district.

And Cleve identifies the Castro's many bathhouses as part of the problem.

They're popular meeting places for gay men to engage in sexual activity.

And as such, they have become hotspots for the spread of the virus.

But Cleve knows there would be an uproar if the bathhouses were to close.

Many in the gay community begrudge the suggestion that the health precautions should infringe on their freedom to enjoy themselves.

They perceive efforts to curtail their social lives as harmful to the gay liberation movement.

Gradually, however, Cleve's campaign gets its message across.

As AIDS continues to ravage their community, gay people in San Francisco agree that the bathhouses will need to close for their lives to be saved.

By May 1983, the total number of reported cases of AIDS in the United States has risen above 1,000.

Almost 40% of those are already dead.

The AIDS crisis has become one of the most serious public health emergencies in history, and yet President Ronald Reagan still hasn't publicly addressed the issue, nor has AIDS received significant coverage in the mainstream media.

Most of the country still considers AIDS a gay issue and turns a blind eye.

And over the next four years, as the death count rises, Cleve will realize that sometimes words are not enough.

If the American political establishment is ever going to respond to the AIDS epidemic, Cleve and the gay community will need to come together and make a grand statement, something that will bring the world's attention to Washington, putting pressure on the Reagan administration to take action and save lives.

Thank.

It's October 11th, 1987, in Washington, DC.

More than half a million people have gathered for the second National March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights.

People from all around the country have flocked to the Capitol to demonstrate along the National Mall.

The purpose of the march is to urge President Reagan to acknowledge the AIDS crisis and to commit federal funds to AIDS research.

Among the many thousands of demonstrators is Cleve Jones.

Over the past few years, Cleve's life has been consumed by his newfound role as an AIDS activist.

He has witnessed dozens of his friends pass away from the disease, and the lack of a federal response has been shocking and heartbreaking.

So recently, Cleve came up with an ambitious plan to force AIDS into the public eye.

The NAMES Project is a quilt, but one the size of two football fields, composed of thousands of panels embroidered with the names of those lost to AIDS.

Many people told Cleve this project wouldn't work, but Cleve persisted, knowing something had to be done to raise awareness.

Thousands of volunteers had helped make the quilt a reality, and today is the day of its unveiling.

Cleve and others unfold the tremendous quilt across the National Mall.

Demonstrators watch on, holding hands and crying, as Cleve reads out the names of those who have died, people whose memory is stitched into the patchwork of the brightly colored quilt.

The Second National March on Washington is the largest demonstration by the LGBTQ plus community in history.

The march receives national media coverage and the AIDS Memorial Quilt is seen by millions.

For the first time, the scale of the tragedy is laid bare for the nation with all social stigma stripped away.

And soon President Reagan will speak about AIDS for the first time in a major policy address, marking a significant stride forward in political engagement with the crisis.

Today, the AIDS Memorial Quilt is kept safe inside a warehouse in San Francisco, periodically going on display.

Since 1981, there have been over 700,000 AIDS-related deaths in the United States.

And even though there have been major breakthroughs in the medical treatment for those living with HIV, the virus that causes AIDS, more people continue dying, and the quilt continues to grow.

As of 2019, the quilt has reached over one million square feet, an ever-growing memorial to the lives of those lost to AIDS, which began when the quilt was first unveiled on October 11, 1987.

Next, on History Daily, October 12th, 1960, Inajiro Asamuma, leader of the Japan Socialist Party, is assassinated by a far-right extremist while speaking in a televised political debate in Tokyo.

From Noiser and Airship, this is History Daily.

Hosted, edited, and executive produced by me, Lindsay Graham.

Audio editing by Molly Vogue.

Sound design by Misha Stanton.

Music by Lindsay Graham.

This episode is written and researched by Joe Viner, produced by Alexandra Curry-Buchner.

Executive producers are Stephen Walters for Airship and Pascal Hughes for Noiser.