The Self Eulogy of Anjelica Sanchez

         I write these words as my dying thoughts, hoping that one day someone will think back on me, and smile a little

         My name is Anjelica Sanchez… and I have A.I.D.S. How many times have I said that before and heard the polite applause coming from the other occupants of the meeting?

          For almost ten years now I have been dealing with this… Virus. I don’t remember much of life before I got it. It was all a blurry haze of drugs and parties. The one event that does stick in my mind was the night that ended with my infection. It was my beginning. It made me become a better person. The thing that is killing me saved my life. Drugs were everywhere, and they were cheap. A night where you ran out of drugs was a bad night, but someone usually had your back. When I contracted the virus, I chose to cleanse myself of those things that could potentially kill me quicker.

         I was young, carefree, and thought I ruled the world; then again, what twenty-one year old cross-dresser didn’t? I was addicted to the party scene, but it was the eighties… who wasn’t? I flirted with the boys and hung out with the girls. Walking into the club was like walking into the warm embrace of your lover. It was always there to take away your problems, help you make new friends, and end an extremely long week.

         That’s how it was for me. Every weekend, my little group would pile into my Oldsmobile and head off to the club. It was on one of these weekend trips that I was infected with my virus. It was the New Year’s bash at our favorite club, and we were all primped and ready to go. I did one last check of makeup, then strolled up to the club doors.

          Somehow I knew from the beginning that I should have just gone home, scrubbed my face, and watched the New Year’s countdown in New York eating a tub of Haggen-Daz. We had trouble finding a parking spot; then it started snowing and I slipped on a spot of ice, hitting my hip on the handrail leading up to the doors. Still, it was the first big bash after my birthday and I had to party it up.

         The club was packed from wall to wall, ceiling to floor, with drunken gyrating bodies. Most of the people were already as high as the proverbial kite. Many tried to get my attention, but I just ignored them. I dragged my best friend Tonya onto the highly polished but littered dance floor. She was already wasted by this point and her limbs seemed to have minds of their own.
         We had only been dancing for a short while when a guy came up and asked my friend for a dance. There was a flash of something in his glazed eyes that sent shivers down my spine. But the disturbing feeling left me almost as quickly as it had come. I knew Tonya was very shy around new people and didn’t like me to leave her alone with strangers. But I thought she’d be okay—it was just one dance, Right?

         I lost myself in the crowd. By the time I got back to Tonya, both of them had slipped off. Two hours later I finally found her. She was passed out on a couch in what we called "The Snuggle Room." I remember moaning about having to guide an inebriated girl who was wearing stilettos down three flights of stairs. She was lying in an awkward position. I realized that her breathing was shallow and checked her pulse. It was weak but steady. Two years of experience in nursing told me that something was very wrong.

         I stood and turned around just in time for something hard to slam against the side of my head. I landed on my stomach; my breath was knocked out of me. When I tried to stand, I felt fire between my shoulder blades. I attempted to yell for 'help' but the words were trapped somewhere behind my Adam's apple. I turned my head just far enough to see the same guy I'd left my friend dancing with.

"Die fag," he said. His eyes shimmered with utter loathing.

         The guy left the room, and I have never seen him again. Yet his eyes haunt me everywhere I go; I see him in every strange pair of eyes I look into. It's Him, telling me to die. And I realized that I'm doing just that. I'm granting his wish. The syringe in my back was a clear symbol of his objective.

Six months later, when I got my official diagnosis, I smirked and uttered aloud, "At least I'm sure to make one person happy."

         Since that day I've watched six people deteriorate from their virus--two men, four women. I have vowed never to let myself feel pity, or despair. I never lived my life like that and I wasn't about to start then. Even when the hospital I worked at let me go, I didn't feel depression or even anger. I knew my life would change because of that night and I was prepared for it. The one thing that hurt was when my lover of four years dumped me because he was "scared." When I told him that it was a weak excuse, the brown eyes from the club burned through me again as the door slammed in my face.

         I can still remember the first two months after my doctor visit. I'd sit at my vanity table staring at myself noticing the ashen color of my desiccated skin, adding a little more eyeliner than necessary and apply just an extra hint of blush. Then I'd smile. I'd smile, telling myself that my impending death wasn't a tragedy, but rather a deadline by which to accomplish my dreams.

         I have also vowed that this virus was never going to hold me back. I used all the money that I'd saved through the years and took several trips. I sipped the finest coffee in Paris and cried at the awesome sight of the Eiffel Tower. I went hiking in aspen, occasionally stopping to yodel at the top of my lungs. I even sang back up when Prince sang "When doves cry" from the front row in Los Angeles.
When my T-Cells dropped a few weeks ago, I stopped taking my A.Z.T's. I wasn't going to try and stop the visible effects of AIDS. The insidious seeping blisters and sharp jutting cheekbones were a part of me now, just like my hair or eye color. I had finished almost everything I wanted to do in my life. Now it was time to enter the last chapter of my life.


         I joked with my friends, told them I was pregnant when I started to lose weight. They'd laugh, then excuse themselves to go to the bathroom. They'd come back with red puffy eyes, having miraculously contracted a cold on the way to the restroom. I told them not to be sad, that they would go on living without me. They'd ask how I could be so calm and happy all the time.

         "I cant change this. I am going to die. So I might as well live life while I can," I'd say every time.

         A few years ago I realized that I had to keep my spirits up. The only way to do this was to remember the happy times. When I am ready to go, I'll remember that the last few months have been the happiest of my short life. I can die knowing this.

         Tomorrow I'll wake up, put on some flashy purple eyeliner, then smile at myself in the vanity mirror. If I don't wake up--well, then just think of me once in a while. It's nice to know that someone will read this and know that I lived and died happy, like I wanted to. I was able to see the world and share a few good laughs with those I loved most.

         Even thought everyone in the room will be filled with sorrow, I want at least one person to look at me and know just one thing: I do not carry anger to my grave with me. I carry love, hope and understanding. My message is clear; think of me dying with a smile, not with a tear

         Hello, my name is Anjelica Sanchez, and I died from AIDS.