I offer the following thoughts to mark the performance here of the Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Dance Company. They are inspired by Jones' comments in a recent interview. He said, "There are a few basic issues that have been with us for eons, and if we're lucky we get a little more insight as we get older. Issues of identity, love and passion have chased me my whole life."

As a psychologist, I have been trained to seek the quantitative and to be suspect of aspects of human experience that cannot be easily reduced to numbers so that modern data-processing can determine "significance." For years, I have received monthly reports of the number of cases of AIDS that have been reported to the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta. In a dispassionate way, I scan these "surveillance" reports, sometimes using them for writing professional papers, sometimes for giving a lecture. They are always "interesting" from a scientific perspective, and I generally put them aside and continue my work.

There are some days, however, when, for whatever reason, I really look at the columns. On these days, I look because I identify with one of the groups. The labels have changed over time: In 1985, it was "patient category;" in 1986, "transmission category;" and, currently it is "exposure category." I scan to the bottom of the "male homosexual/bisexual contact" column for the total. Fortunately (I remind myself), the number I see is not the number of men lost to HIV, "only" the number of reported cases.

The calculation of deaths can be easily calculated: 63 percent of all HIV cases are dead; there are 102,405 men in "my" category; therefore, 65,000 men gone. (Actually 64,515 as of last December, but the need for precision fades.) The rest live with HIV infections. These gay/bisexual men live with other chronic infections of American society too -- classism, racism, sexism -- and special circumstances designed just for them -- heterosexism and homophobia.

I stare at the numbers, getting angrier and angrier. I remember the last man I knew who died. He had become blind, and could barely walk when I visited him in his family's home. His partner had rejected him viciously, the local hospital (not in Centre County) had unspeakably mistreated him; all of his friends ran away from him. He was not a statistic for me, but a vivid and agonizing reality. We found a common love of movies, and I told him I'd bring some Hitchcock for him (I nearly said, "We'd watch them together," but caught myself.) I never saw him again -- he went into a coma and died a week later, consumed by fever. What sense does this make? A 26 year-old man's life gone...Why?

I take refuge in my anger for only so long, since I realize that I am alive, that I have tested negative for HIV, that I have a caring partner, that I have two children, etc., etc.

My anger seems even falser when I force myself to look at other columns on the monthly report. As a white man, what do I know of life (and death) for the 18,416 African-American gay or bisexual men whose names have been sent to Atlanta? Or, the 11,272 Hispanic men? Does the fact that we more or less inhabit the same category on a government report mean that we live in the same world?

As a gay men, my anger at heterosexual privilege is intense. My anger can also be self-righteous. But, compared to the anger of an African-American boy who likes other boys and who gets beaten up three times -- by whites on the basis of color, by Blacks because he is gay, by gay men because he is Black -- my feelings are trivial. What of the despair of the young Hispanic teen who must tell his family that he has AIDS because he has no place to go? We do not inhabit the same categories in life. Rather, we delude ourselves into believing the melting-pot myth.

I can remember vividly how shocked I was when I first learned that another friend had used IV drugs. Nor could I relate to a woman friend's grief after her brutal rape. I can observe, look at, analyze someone else's loss, but I must not assume I can feel it. I cannot accurately quantify it, even though doing so might allow me to feel less upset. My feeling secure is irrelevant, and demeans others' pain.

It seems a natural instinct to preach after pointing out loss and grief. For some, comfort is found in soothing words or in a vision of a better world. I have too much trouble shaking the feelings -- both my anger, and my guilt about the puniness of my personal grief so far in life.

I find my own comfort in working to change this community's climate for lesbians and gay men. It is hardly comforting, however, to have the local borough council continue to cast off lesbians and gay men as unworthy of housing protection. Nor can I turn to the University's battle to keep sexual orientation out of its equal opportunity policy. But I must continue to speak out on the oppression of lesbians and gay men in this community. I cannot equate my fears with those untenured lesbian and gay faculty who hesitate to state their views. I cannot act as though I can feel the vulnerability of an African-American or Hispanic staff member whose supervisor makes homophobic remarks. But I can do my best to force others to see all of us, whether I use my statistics or my voice.

Bill T. Jones offers his life and his vision to us, to help us see. We are honored to have his struggle for identity, love and passion in our community.