Each name comes to me from a friend, family member, or loved one of someone we’ve lost to AIDS.
My team and I have the names engraved on plaques that are added to Toronto’s AIDS Memorial and unveiled at the annual vigil in Barbara Hall Park.
Over the years, I’ve built a bit of a ritual for myself. As I review the details of the new plaques, I close my office door and shut out all distractions. I pay painstaking attention to every letter of every name – there’s no room for mistakes here.
When I’m done, I let myself cry.
The reality of the task washes over me: How every name was sent by someone who walks with the forever grief of losing a loved one. How new names will share space with 2,916 others on the memorial – each one serving as the briefest of glimpses into a full life lived.
Sometimes I recognize a name. I sit with memories of the sound of their voice, their laugh, and the good times we shared.
For the names I don’t recognize, I wonder: Who were they? What got them out of bed in the morning? What kept them up at night? What does their legacy hold? Who holds their story now?
Those questions stay with meas I join the hundreds who come together each year at the AIDS Vigil. Holding a candle in a sea of tiny flames, I’m struck by the power of the memorial.
Every year, the tears come again. Tears of grief, yes. But, to crib from William Blake, joy and woe are woven fine. Under every grief and pine, runs a joy with silken twine. There is a catharsis, a strength, that comes when we hold our pain together.
Every year I leave with the profound comfort of knowing we’ve come together for decades to share the names of our loved ones. That we refuse to let them be forgotten. That we know these stories are sacred and deserve to be told.
That’s why I’m so proud to be leading a new project focused on preserving the memory of those lost to HIV/AIDS, and to be sharing their stories with future generations. The project offers our communities the opportunity to steward the memorial and share what made their loved ones so special. Together, we can do more than ensuring that memorial is preserved and protected. Together, we can invest in and expand our commitment to those who came before us. Those who had the vision and dedication to make sure our loved ones are never forgotten, and that our collective struggle for dignity would not be erased.
I am honoured to do this work and humbled by the stories we shine a light on.
While this might be a new initiative of The 519, it’s really an amplification of what happens every time someone visits the memorial and shares the story of someone enshrined on its pillars. Moments like these build connections across decades. They bring us together not in sorrow but in strength.
Those moments are precious and so, so powerful. They seed the way to understanding, care, and community. Today, I hope you’ll make a gift to create more moments of connection at The 519.
As a small token of our gratitude for your support, we’ll send you this gorgeous illustration from local queer artist, Jake Tobin. When you look at it, I hope you are reminded of the beauty we create when we come together and the power a moment of connection holds.
Written by Curran Stikuts, Director of Advocacy and Strategic Communications
