Jordan J. Edwards remembers the moment he was diagnosed with HIV at 22 years old.It was supposed to be a turning point where hed receive clarity, care and next steps. But instead, it left him feeling shaken and alone.The provider who told me the results actually pulled out a box of pens and gave me one and told me to throw it away when I was done with it, Edwards said. He also told me not to share certain things, like utensils, with anyone at home.Edwards immediately thought of his mother, he told Windy City Times.I was thinking about how I live with her, and then it sent me on this downward spiral of feeling like Im not going to make it, Edwards said.There was no guidance or reassurance, Edwards said. Just silence.But then came a second encounter, which shifted everything for Edwards, he said. Soon after receiving his diagnosis, Edwards was connected with a case worker who offered the reassurance he desperately needed.She said, All that you were told is wrong. Lets start fresh, Edwards recalled. She sat down and talked with me. She walked me through what HIV was and what treatment looks like. She explained to me how I could live a healthy life. The time she took to educate me gave me enough hope to want to take my medicine and do better.Edwards described her talk with him as life-changing.Jordan Edwards, deputy director of the BQ+ Center for Liberation at the Normal Anomaly Initiative. Photo provided by Jordan EdwardsWhat she gave me is what the person who gave me the status took away from me, Edwards said. So if I can help someone else feel seen, valued and worthy like she did for me, thats the real currency.Today, Edwards serves as deputy director of the BQ+ Center for Liberation at theNormal Anomaly Initiativein Houston. He works to ensure Black queer people navigating HIV have the affirming care, education and support that he didnt get at first.And that work remains urgent.Despite national efforts to reduce HIV transmissions and expand access to HIV prevention medications like PrEP, the numbers show that Black and Latinx LGBTQ+ people continue to experience disproportionate outcomes.In 2022, Black people accounted for 37% of new HIV infections, while making up about 12% of the U.S. population, according todata from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). Hispanic and Latino people made up 18% of the population but accounted for 33% of new HIV infections.Together, both populations made up more than half of estimated new HIV infections in 2022, according to the CDC.These disparities are not simply due to lack of outreach, experts told Windy City Times. But they do reflect a persistent lack of culturally competent care, systemic racism and failures to meet people where they are.You know, I think that in Black and Brown communities, there are social drivers that impact us in our navigation when it comes down to care but theres also internal barriers that we face with stigma, Edwards said.You cannot end the HIV epidemic without Black and Brown peopleVictoria Kirby York, director of public policy and programs at theNational Black Justice Collective, said efforts to reach zero new transmissions are often disconnected from the realities of the communities they aim to serve.You cannot end the HIV epidemic without Black and Brown people, Kirby York said. You cannot do it without our leadership or without being honest about the systemic racism, transphobia and homophobia in the systems that we have to navigate to even get a test.Part of closing the HIV gap experienced by Black and Latino communities requires directing resources to people from those communities who are doing the work, Kirby York said.You cannot talk about ending the epidemic and then not resource the folks who have always been doing the workoften for free, in their own living rooms, cooking food for people to come over and get tested, Kirby York said.Kirby York emphasized the need to center lived experiences in all public health planning.People who are most impacted are the ones who have the greatest ideas for solutions, Kirby York said. Its just often theyre not askedor when they are asked, its a check-the-box experience.Thats why organizations likeALMA, Chicagos Latino LGBTQ+ group, are putting the creative power directly into the hands of the community.Executive Director Manuel Hernndez-Nez said ALMA has launched multiple campaigns in which Latino artists shape the messaging around PrEP and HIV prevention. This ensures the outreach is not only culturally competent but also community-driven.ALMA Executive Director Manuel Hernandez. Photo by Vern HesterWe hire artists from our own community to do the messaging, Hernndez-Nez said. We do a lot of artivism, and when people see themselves reflected in the work, its easier for them to trust it.This approach has helped combat stigma and increase awareness in spaces that might otherwise be missed by traditional public health campaigns, Hernndez-Nez said.Meeting communities where they areHernndez-Nez said that even with culturally tailored campaigns, fear remains one of the biggest barriers his community faces, whether its fear of the health care system or the persistent stigma surrounding HIV.Culturally, there can be a lot of mistrust in medical institutions among Latinx communities, stemming from a dark history of medical experimentation and testing on people of color, Hernndez-Nez said.Theres a fear of systems, and when you add a medical lens to that, it gets heightened, Hernndez-Nez said.Some clients arent even offered prevention tools like PrEP in the first place, Hernndez-Nez said.Theyll tell us, My provider never talks to me about PrEP. They dont even talk to me about sex, Hernndez-Nez said. Or they dont even have a provider.To combat this, ALMA is focused on meeting people where they are, Hernndez-Nez said.Were doing testing at places like [LGBTQ+ Pride events], but were also trying to reach folks beyond the North Side, Hernndez-Nez said. Our community is everywhere in Chicago, and its important were also reaching [primarily predominantly Latino neighborhoods like] Pilsen, Little Village and Humboldt Park.Part of this work means offering testing at bars, community centers, parks and anywhere else that people tend to gather, Hernndez-Nez said. And this can vary from community to community, so theres no one-size-fits all approach.Nala Body, a prevention adherence coordinator atTaskForce Prevention and Community Servicesin Chicago, said one of the most effective ways to close the gap in HIV prevention is to meet people where they are, especially Black and Brown LGBTQ+ youth who may not feel safe or supported in traditional medical spaces.TaskForce, which is based on Chicagos West Side, does this outreach through its Vogue School, an open, affirming space where young people learn the dance form of voguing while connecting with peers and expressing themselves. This program also doubles as a gateway to essential health services, Body said.We test at the Vogue School, Body said. I also do STI testing there. It just makes sense for us to be there and offer these services while the youth are engaged. The Vogue School is such a safe space for youth to just be themselves, but its also a great way for us to get people in the door for testing.Body said the excitement of the Vogue School is the hook that gets people in the door to be connected with these kinds of resources.If you just say, Hey, come get tested, a lot of people are not going to come, Body said. But if you say, Hey, come vogue, come have fun, and then we let them know about testingtheyre more likely to get tested.Edwards said the difference between care and harm often comes down to empathy and cultural competence.Culture is important, because that is where people begin to feel seen, Edwards said. If I feel seen, if I feel worthy and if I feel human, Im going to go to the doctor and ask the important questions.And when we start to do that, we get closer to zero, Edwards said.The post Left behind in the race to zero: Why Black and Brown LGBTQ+ communities arent seeing the same HIV gains appeared first on News Is Out.