I remember my first day of sex ed. I was in middle school and I was super excited. “Finally,” I thought, “I am going to learn about this mystical sex-thing.” Lo and behold, I was very surprised when class ended. I came away from that class having learned nothing; nothing about protection, nothing about pregnancy and, definitely, nothing about sex. I do not know why I had expected to learn about sex in Catholic school, but I did. That day I left feeling very disappointed, particularly since only one form of love was shown; straight, white, married and abstinent. Most disappointing of all was that there was no representation of people of color.

Fast forward years later at my Catholic, all-girls high school, and sex education was back. The whole school was ushered into the gym and stared at a huge screen. Image after image of the worst-case scenarios of STIs were shown. I was mortified as a 14-year-old. I covered my eyes throughout the whole thing, so what little good (or bad) it could have done was completely missed. After that, the only other times sex education was brought up were during anatomy and physiology. Oh, and one other time when we had a speaker.

Our speaker was a counselor who was born to an immigrant who had been raped during her journey crossing the border. Her mother was faced with the tough decisions of raising a child in a foreign land. This segued into how her mother was able to make “right decisions” and how sex outside of marriage leads only to bad decisions. She stated everyone thinks “not me,” whether it comes to pregnancy or STDs. Looking back on it now, I do remember many girls leaving the room crying and ashamed because they had sex and may have gotten pregnant.

Her technique was to shame people into making the right decisions, not to empower us to make the best decision we can make.

So that was my “sexual education.” Everything else was on my own via books, the internet, or from my ill-informed friends who meant well, but probably did more harm than good. For example, books made me think that sex was beautiful and completely romantic. Your first sexual partner would be “The One,” and you would live happily ever after. Then, when I saw porn for the first time, sex was stripped of all romance and caring. I tried to wrap my head around this notion, that some people do not hold sex in such high regard. In fact, one of my guy friends described it as similar to using the bathroom in a girl and that sex was just a bodily function. I still find the analogy disgusting. My friends also taught me sexual slang and told me about their own sexual experiences. And, I will forever remember the rumor of a girl who was caught performing oral sex underneath a table at a high school dance. Sex became something dirty and underground compared to the loving exchange between partners I had initially read about.

As an adult and as a sex educator, I now have the opportunity to reflect on my own sex ed experiences and bring to it what I wish I had. Learning and teaching the curriculum has taught me how much I missed and what mistakes I could have avoided if I had received guidance. Yes, abstinence was taught to me and, honestly, it may be the best option for some people. But in the process, I was also taught to feel ashamed of my body and the changes it was undergoing. Now, I am in a position to make a difference by making people aware of the importance of sex education. Sex education should incorporate knowledge about the body and the changes it undergoes. It should teach students about safe practices and empower them to make proud, informed choices. Sex education should be about healthy relationships and communication. Lastly, but definitely not finally, sex education should teach about the laws and policies that are in place and help students to understand them in the context of their own lives.

Now that leads me to the misconceptions about what I do. I have only been in this role for a short time, but I am constantly surprised at what people think I teach. Some people think I teach pre-teens and teens how to perform sex or how to please and touch their partners. Others just think I have some bananas and show students how to put on condoms.

In reality, the core of what I teach is that it is very important to listen to your partner and their needs and make sure everyone involved is comfortable and consensual.

I love informing people of the reality of what we teach here at IWES, especially addressing the misconceptions about STIs and our bodies. I also love the range of topics we teach about, which includes: consent, goals and dreams, puberty, the parts of the body, STIs, condom usage and birth control methods.

With all this being said, I know I have much more to learn. I remember that little girl who was in sex ed, and now know what she needed to hear but wasn’t given. She needed comprehensive sex education and freedom from shame, which is what I will be teaching to the youth who go through our program.

As a young child, my ultimate dream was to become a network administrator or become a grand musical entertainer. My love for computers and music was my saving grace, especially in my household. As the youngest of five siblings and the only male child, I was very shy and an introvert. Music and computers were my solitude and tranquil moments to get away from the giggling family girl hive. Being a shy child, I gravitated to computers and music, because I never had to interact with a radio, like I would a human being. The computer was my personalized programmed robot, and I had the opportunity to feed it what I wanted based on my input. Both of these things did not require me to speak, which I loved, because I was so shy back then. However, in 2009 everything in my personal life began to shift, and my life began turning into a scary place. Little did I know, the journey that I would embark upon would bring me fulfillment and joy.

In 2009, a very close friend, more like a brother, informed me that he was HIV positive. He didn’t just blurt the news out; it sort of rolled off his tongue during an unexpected conversation. He was having issues in his romantic relationship, just venting, and disclosed his HIV status during the conversation.

When my friend disclosed that he was HIV positive, my insides turned and somersaulted. I immediately began to reflect on my life.

I cried, sniffed back the wounded tears, and wondered how I dodged the bullet. Why my friend? Is he going to die? However, through the tears, I was able to encourage my friend, and also help him on his journey. Although he was attending his doctor’s appointments regularly, I felt compelled to share some of the weight, and lift him up when he needed it the most.

The telephone conversation with my brother and friend not only numbed me, but it pulled all of that shy fire outside of me. Instantly life clicked. I didn’t want to wade in a stream of tears, be downtrodden, or be an emotional wreck. I knew that this was my time, my moment to let go of the shy kid. For my friend, for my brother, I decided to pursue a career in the field of Public Health. I didn’t take any scholarly classes and didn’t have an academic background in the field. I jumped feet first off the diving board and just started swimming in the field. I volunteered with local community-based organizations and public health studies that focused on HIV transmission and Linkage to HIV Care.

Through my brother’s journey, I became empowered to be an agent of change. I was not only my brother’s support system; I was his advocate.

I attended his doctor’s appointments and learned everything about HIV to ensure that he had a fighting chance at life. Attending his doctor visits provided me with clarity and the knowledge of the importance of Linkage to Care. Linkage to Care is an instrumental component in leading the way to improving the outcomes of individuals living with HIV. Clients must feel empowered and confident that their health care providers are providing them with quality care, so they can have a sustainable, long and healthy life. My brother is a living witness that doctors treating their clients with dignity and respect aids in clients being medically adherent and knowledgeable about their viral load and CD4 count.

As the Linkage to Care Coordinator at the Institute of Women & Ethnic Studies, I understand the importance of linking clients to care, always being compassionate and client-centered. Regardless of a client’s age, race, gender, socioeconomic status, or sexual preference, I ensure that the clients are comfortable. I meet them exactly where they are, and ensure that they have a support system on their first initial visit. I utilize my unique set of skills and link the hardest to reach clients into care because I am honest and genuine in the need to ensure that they are medically adherent. By guiding clients through the process, with soft care and much-needed attention, I know that the linkage chain cannot be broken. Moving forward, it is my desire to continue to be a reliable advocate for my clients, friends, and family.

To learn more about our work on HIV/AIDS, find our testing times, and learn about linkage-to-care, click here.

The draw of teaching comprehensive sex education has long been on my radar. I’m a firm believer that all people deserve sexual health education that provides inclusive, holistic information and is taught using a person-centered approach in which learning is multi-directional and engaging, leaving learners empowered with knowledge.

Having originally come from a human rights framework academically, I found myself gravitating more and more toward issues related to sexual and reproductive health.

I started to critically question why stigma and shame are all too often attached to sexuality and reproductive health. Why is it that sexual behaviors, sexual health, and sexual education are taboo?

Additionally, I began to see that when concerns are taboo, policies and legislation often further deprioritize issues and overregulate accessibility and choice. Over time, I realized that the injustices related to sexual and reproductive health activate and inspire me to be a part of this work and the intersectionalities inherent within it.

My time has arrived to step into the classrooms of New Orleans and beyond and I find that reflecting on the journey that has led me to my current position as a sexual health educator has been pivotal to prepare for the school year and do my best to fully show up for my students. Prior to joining IWES, I worked, volunteered, and interned with a number of different public health organizations domestically and internationally. These roles provided me with experience in outreach and advocacy, research and evaluation, and policy-level change. While the opportunity to gain tangible skills and experience has been important, above everything, the individual and community level connections have been the most meaningful and profound aspects of working in public health.

During my thesis work, I had the opportunity to facilitate several focus groups with adolescents; I was blown away by the creative ingenuity and nuanced suggestions that our participants voiced. They were so in tune with themselves, their peers, and the world around them. A lot of our discussions focused on stigma and judgment in relation to sexual and reproductive health and how tools like a mobile app could help normalize accessing information and care. Furthermore, the adolescent focus groups often got specific about the necessity of education and services being available to all genders and shared insightful suggestions for inclusive branding and marketing. It was incredible to hear young people speak candidly about their needs and hopes related to their own sexual health as well as their ideas about how to push society past stigma and shame. Not only did it affirm the sentiment of “nothing about them without them,” but it also solidified my personal interest in working with youth.

The more I dove into public health as a career and continued to work in adolescent health, the more I came to find that the adolescent age group is often overlooked and undervalued. As a society, we tend to pay attention and devote resources to the little ones and older folks while pinning teenagers as “troublemakers, difficult, rebellious, careless, disrespectful, etc.”

By undermining the light, intelligence, and uniqueness of young people, we dismiss their developmental growth and can contribute to existing or potential trauma.

I can remember some of the woes of my own journey through adolescence. During that time, having caring adults in my life, especially teachers, was imperative to my development and self-esteem. As I transition from a more research-centered background into a teaching role, nostalgia plays a helpful role in my classroom readiness. While we may never know the entirety of the influence we have on others, I am committed to creating classrooms that center student voice, honor their experiences and can leave students feeling heard, supported, and informed for whatever is next for them.

I’ll take a moment here to pause and remind y’all that I’ve just started teaching and give myself a reality check. While I have goals and ambitions as a teacher, I will encounter challenges, mess up, not know all the answers, and probably have some outright fails. It’s definitely scary and nerve-wracking, but I’m glad I’ll be kept on my toes and I look forward to laughing at myself here and there. I know that flexibility and humility will be crucial to stay in tune with students and the uniqueness of different classrooms and schools.

Thinking back to my graduate program, which focused heavily on peer-facilitated classrooms, I greatly look forward to teaching again and helping with “knowledge translation” around potentially complex concepts. In public health, “knowledge translation” is typically defined as the notion of breaking down research into digestible information for community organizations or community members to use. To me, teaching is all about knowledge translation and ensuring that students can walk away fully grasping the information in a way that enables them to share the core concepts with someone else.

As I’ve begun implementing and move forward into these first few weeks of fall, I’ve been resonating with some key takeaways:

• Embracing and welcoming the wisdom of my fellow educators and the IWES family. Learning from co-workers through conversations, classroom observations, and teach-back sessions has been greatly illuminating in preparing to teach.
• Continually being open to feedback and staying on my growing edge as an educator. For me, this means being receptive to the feedback from my peers as well as ensuring that students have ample opportunities to share their thoughts; after all, their learning is at the heart of our programming at the Institute of Women & Ethnic Studies.
• Maintaining honesty and showing humility. When you don’t know something ask questions and show interest! For example, I fully expect the kids to school me on pop culture references and I simultaneously look forward to learning more and expanding my playlists, watch lists, and internet wormholes.
• Lastly, a big one that comes up for me is doing a bit of teleporting back to my own adolescence — remembering the ups and downs, all the feels, discovering my passions and voice. Fortunately, I was an avid journaler and photographer in those days and can do some direct tunneling back. I believe it’s definitely a helpful way to be present with young people and build empathy.

“I lived in a world that at any moment could erupt into fire. It was the sort of knowledge that kept you on your toes.” ― Jeannette Walls, The Glass Castle

I have heard quite often acquaintances and friends describe me as a warm, kind, and optimistic person. I am often shy when meeting others but quickly befriend most. Generally, I’m a pretty grounded person and have quite a bit to be proud of. I love to read, hang out with my friends, drink buckets of coffee, and joke about my future as a cat lady. That said, most people, including roommates and long-time friends, don’t know that I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder ¹. It’s not something I disclose openly because while it has played a large role in my life, I don’t want it to define who I am.

When people think about post-traumatic stress disorder, particularly chronic PTSD (or C-PTSD), they most often think of a soldier having come back from war. When I went to my university’s psychiatrist, I had gone there because I had been dealing with debilitating depression and anxiety; my mind was a minefield every day. However, it never seemed that bad. My upbringing was unusual and isolating, but it wasn’t combat. And now, I had left that upbringing behind and was in college, where I was well-liked by my professors and becoming an active leader on campus. My past was behind me, I had thought. To say the least, I was extremely confused when I received the diagnosis.

In the book Educated, author Tara Westover wrote, “My life was narrated for me by others. Their voices were forceful, emphatic, absolute. It had never occurred to me that my voice might be as strong as theirs.” Like Tara, I had been told all my life that my education, my identity, my needs, my health, and my opinions weren’t important. Growing up, what is said about you over and over again by those who are supposed to take care of you becomes who you are. I hadn’t known I was important or worthy enough to have my needs addressed. For those that had unstable, violent, neglectful, abusive and/or high-stress childhoods, that often becomes the norm for your life. Like a Dickens novel, choices had been made by adults and systems around us without thought for us — we, children, had to deal with the consequences and become the adults.

If that sounds isolating, you’re right. I thought that because of the way I grew up, I would never be able to be the person I wanted to be; I would always feel the divide between myself and those who grew up in loving, stable, and supportive homes. I was afraid that I was too behind to catch up with those around me; being passive, scared, and anxious was just who I was. And the more I read, the more I understood how my past now had become a part of my body, mind, and spirit.² At first, I felt absolutely hopeless. PTSD became my identity and I submitted to the thought that I would always be a damaged person. But that didn’t feel right to me. I was here, at college, because I fought for it. I was doing well because I worked hard for it. I needed to fight for myself as well.

It wasn’t until college that I was able to truly learn about myself and build my identity. I had grown up parenting myself and those around me, but now this was different territory. Not just surviving, but being healthy. Not just trying to stay alive, but living. Boundaries? Well, I never really understood what my boundaries were, let alone how to stand up for them. Physical and emotional needs? I had to learn how to express those and in a healthy way.

The biggest thing I had to learn was trust. To trust myself and to trust those around me. This was a huge part of being able to build my own identity and, finally, be able to connect to others like I had always wanted to.

Growing up, one way that I had coped was through reading, where I could escape to far off places, live different lives, and connect with characters that I never imagined existed. This was the reason I chose to major in English literature. In college, I was surrounded by professors and mentors who valued what I had to say and encouraged me. I saw parallels to my childhood in the work of Amy Tan, Charles Dickens, and Virginia Woolf, and felt at home in the feminist poetry of Audre Lorde and philosophy of Simone de Beauvoir. I thrived when learning. And, I was able to apply it to my life as well. As many professors see in their students, academia became a way for me to explore and express my past experiences. I had found my space in academia, dissecting theories and absorbing as much knowledge as I could. However, I knew that in order to take the theory and knowledge of what I learned, I needed to be vulnerable and live life more fully.

As an adult, I was able to gain even more self-confidence and further see who I was through traveling, being a part of diverse communities, and through my work in the nonprofit sector. My early twenties wasn’t without the symptoms of PTSD and the myriad ways that I coped with them, whether overeating, partying, overworking, et cetera. It was all trial and error, on top of the wild ride that is your early twenties. It was at this time I also came to connect with people more. Fortunately and unfortunately, I hadn’t been alone in my upbringing and experiences. I started to notice a sense of opening up from those around me — maybe it mirrored my own opening up. While everyone will endure trauma in their life, I started to hear more and more stories about chronic trauma from friends and the way it affected their adult lives; mainly, their insecurities around their worth, inability to feel connected to their peers and partners, and constant self-sabotaging and criticism.

While I had my own vested interest in trauma, the way I approached it became different when I saw that I wasn’t alone. And in that, I also saw how important it was to have community, agency, and your own voice. I wanted the world to be more aware that a lot more people were dealing with trauma and, more so, with chronic trauma that came from reactions and cycles of much bigger systems. It’s one thing to deal with trauma from a natural disaster or a single freak accident and another to see trauma that comes from misogyny, racism, homophobia, xenophobia, and poverty. That was something that, as a society, we could change.

I knew that I could help people to change the narratives of their lives after trauma — one of purposeless, helplessness, and fear — into one of empowerment, vulnerability, and connection.

Like literature helped me to cope and rework my experiences throughout my life, I enjoyed helping those around me to open up about their lives and tell their stories about trauma, grief, and loss. Being able to listen and talk to people, whether close friends or complete strangers, in an honest, empathetic, non-judgemental way was just what we both needed. In psychology, they call this cognitive reframing, a technique used to dispute negative or maladaptive thoughts and reframe them to find more objective and/or positive ways of thinking. Moreso, it reframes a mindset that is hopeless, fearful, and pessimistic into one of agency, optimism, and empowerment. To me, this is storytelling at its core. It all came together. I saw how my skills and experience could be used to help others from traumatic backgrounds.

To be honest, the journey never ends. At first, I was disappointed to find that there would never be a magic cure for trauma and there would never be a point when I would be “healed.”

I have come to appreciate that I now have a deeper awareness of my mental health than most others have to have and am proud of the woman I have become. I will always be on a path of healing.

My past has become something that has propelled me forward, rather than kept me down and I have had the opportunity to work on amazing and impactful projects, learn from some of the best local, national, and global leaders, and dedicate my life to changing systems and processes that impact the most vulnerable.

With that said, I am committed to helping others to heal, no matter where they are on their journey, and making changes to our society so that we can all live meaningful, healthy, thriving, and connected lives. To quote the amazing rap artist Angel Haze from her song “Dirty Gold,”

“Then I looked into the world and saw a million people like me

Probably never know your stories, but you’re the reason I’m fighting.”

In my work at the Institute of Women & Ethnic Studies, I get to truly live this and change the narrative on trauma in our society. Working at IWES is a dream, culminating from my past experiences, personally and professionally, and I am so proud to work for an organization that sees the strength in that and wants to be a part of my journey.

[1]: More accurately C-PTSD. However, the DSM has yet to include C-PTSD and distinguish it as chronic versus PTSD, which can happen after a singular event. This is important because chronic trauma and stress can change the body, mind, and impede healthy development and lead to chronic health issues, compounding health issues.

[2]: As poetic as this line may seem, chronic stress and trauma do shape a person’s body, mind, and development. To learn more, you can see the research on ACEs and epigenetics.

This fall is my first foray into teaching sex education to middle schoolers. As I’ve transitioned into my role as a health educator, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what my teaching style will be and how I’ll be able to connect with my students. The best way I could think to prepare, aside from reviewing the curriculum, was to reflect on my own experiences with sex ed. What did I like? What did I dislike? What did I wish I learned growing up? My first introduction to formal sex education was around 4th or 5th grade and as I was reflecting on those questions I realized that a lot of my sex education started well before then.

My mom, a registered nurse, started her own age-appropriate and medically accurate sex ed course with me at the ripe old age of two. As a medical professional she knew just how important these conversations were for my development. When I was younger our talks mainly centered around the proper terms for my body parts and consent. She made sure that I knew my body was mine and no one else has a right to it, not even people I know. I always had the right to say no. As I got older, we started talking about what healthy relationships, friendly or romantically, looked like and of course how to be safe whenever I decided to become sexually active. One particularly special thing about our conversations was that it was never from the perspective that I would be punished for doing anything.

I felt very safe talking to my mom about any and everything. This laid a crucial foundation for me as I grew up and to this day shapes the way I operate in the world.

It wasn’t until I was in my late teens that I realized that the conversations I had with my mom about bodies, sex and healthy relationships we’re a bit unique compared to my peers. Many of the things I told my friends I discuss with my mom were met with “Girl, what? I would never tell my mom that!” I thought everyone’s parents spoke freely with them about these topics, but many of my friends said they didn’t feel comfortable talking to their parents about that back then, and many still don’t. For many millennials, sex education only happened in school and from questionable magazine articles (I’m looking at you Cosmo).

I now see how fortunate I was to have someone filling in the blanks. The things I wasn’t able to learn in school, my mom taught me at home.

I’m excited to work with the Institute of Women & Ethnic Studies and teach the curriculum we’ve created because, as my mother did for me, it will allow me to help fill in the blanks for my students. I hope that they’ll see me as a resource and feel comfortable asking me any questions they have. Often times, the first thing that comes to mind when people think about sex ed tends to be pregnancy and STI prevention, but there is so much more to it than that. Pregnancy and STI prevention are super important, but so are the lessons on mental health, healthy relationships, and the wild ride we call puberty.

When I was younger I didn’t always understand why my mom was so adamant about having these discussions with me or why we had to spend half a semester every year talking about the same thing in gym class. It can be challenging to see the value in something when it doesn’t directly relate to you at that moment. I kept thinking, “I don’t have a partner, nor am I sexually active, so why do I need to learn this right now?” I’m sure at some point during I will have students in my classes feeling this same way, and it is my goal to help them see the big picture. It might not seem relevant at this exact moment, but knowledge is power! I want my students to leave my class feeling empowered to make healthy decisions about their lives and to know that they’re supported.

Before Hurricane Katrina, my professional goal was to earn a juris doctorate in Family Law, and possibly author a few poetry books in between my busy schedule. As a childhood survivor of physical abuse, I was deeply committed to the law profession because I was genuinely compelled to provide abused children with strong supportive representation in the courtroom. I wanted to ensure that every child that I represented had a hand of love to hold onto, and the much-needed resources to heal from the trauma that they endured. However, over the course of three years, my focus began to shift. I became conflicted as I set out to continue my journey, and wrestled inwardly with my overall professional decisions. Although I earned a dual bachelor’s degree (English and History), I began to garner a deeper and intense connective pull towards the field of Public Health. This shifting wasn’t some happenstance decision; I am a firm believer that it was a higher calling, a mission that would expand my growth mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

On the campus of Southern University at New Orleans, I was actively involved in several student organizations and formed great campus friendships. In the late 90’s, I met Raja, an openly gay man who had the most infectious and bubbly personality. Raja was smart, humorous, and all things joyful and beautiful. He and I immediately developed a strong friendship, and after four months of being campus buddies, he disclosed to me that he was HIV +. He also informed me that he never received treatment, because he was too afraid to go to the clinic. Raja thought it was intimidating and stigmatizing, and was afraid that someone might expose his personal status to his family–a family that had already disowned him. As a friend, I offered to personally take him to the clinic, and after long tiresome talks for months, he agreed to seek treatment. Raja was consistent with his medication, appointments, and the picture of perfect health for two years. However, his health began to decline rapidly, and unfortunately, he received an AIDS diagnosis. After several consistent days in the hospital, I encouraged him to share his status with his family.

I thought, “Maybe they would have a change of heart. Maybe they would support him through this journey. Maybe this would be a time for atonement, love, support, and healing.” However, my advice backfired.

Unfortunately, Raja’s family pushed him further away. Raja passed away in the fall of 2004, when the leaves were turning a crisp ginger-orange and medium brown. His family didn’t mourn the changing stages in his life and didn’t think his life or death was worth the wasted teardrop. His father perceived him to be this ‘Great Sinner’, and his death was punishment from God. Due to their personal biases and ingrained stigma, Raja’s family failed to reach out to him with a hand of love. They didn’t want to bury him. So, a few close friends and other relatives honored the beautiful light that he was and raised funds to bury our loving friend.

It is through Raja’s journey that I began to volunteer with local HIV organizations and became involved in the HIV field. However, a few years later, after Hurricane Katrina gave New Orleans a 1–2–3, knock out hurricane punch, my family and I were faced with the devastating news that my sister was battling an AIDS diagnosis. My sister, like so many New Orleans residents living with HIV, were tangled in this web of unethical treatment and medical injustices. Medical facilities in other states refused to treat them, making access to medical care problematic. My sister passed away in July 2008, the coldest summer day in New Orleans. She was known as the family’s child magnet, the comedian, and the most delightful feather jewel. Her untimely death, coupled with the weight of physically and mentally rebuilding after two life storms, pushed me to broaden my work and become an HIV advocate.

I adopted poet laureate Gwendolyn Brooks’ quote as my daily mantra, “First fight. Then fiddle.”

Therefore, as a mother, grandmother, sister, daughter, aunt, mentor, mentee, and friend to thousands of women that left this planet too soon because of AIDS complications, I stand on their shoulders. I fight. For every HIV positive New Orleanian denied access to HIV healthcare services, and HIV medication after Hurricane Katrina, I extend my hand like a welcoming garden. I fight.

I firmly believe that for such a time as this, we are called to champion the cause of marginalized communities, amplify the voices of people of color, and work as agents of change to shift the paradigm of inequities in healthcare to reduce stigma and empower our communities to take charge of their sexual health. My priority as an HIV Testing Coordinator is to ensure that I not only welcome my clients with love, but lead with love, compassion, understanding, and empathy. This fifteen plus year journey in the HIV profession has been humbling and sometimes tiresome, yet an enlightening professional and personal experience. My job isn’t to simply conduct HIV tests, distribute condoms, counsel, write referrals, or link clients into medical care. This is a sacred mission where I have been chosen to educate families about sexual health and provide clients with the tools to empower their communities. This is a divine assignment where I always lead with a hand of love.

I was in my early 20s, living on my own for the first time in college and having fun. I had just gotten out of a relationship and was on birth control so I wasn’t using condoms that much. I had a whole lot of unprotected sex with a whole lot of people until I got chlamydia (an STD) for the first time. I got tested too early after catching it so the test came back negative. I started having sex without condoms again and accidentally spread the chlamydia to about 5 other people. About 6 months later, I went to the doctor to get a women’s wellness exam and pap smear. They tested me for all the STDs again and come to find out I had chlamydia. NO SYMPTOMS FOR 6 WHOLE MONTHS! I was in shock. My best friend also had it, and a lot of other people had it, too, and didn’t have any symptoms.

After being diagnosed with an STD even though I didn’t have symptoms for 6 months, I definitely thought that a lot of people had it. I even saw the guys I gave it to go and get girlfriends after, and I’m here thinking “Oh no. They about to give it to their girlfriends, too.” Now, every time I get a new partner I make them go get tested with me. I let most of my partners know that my dad died from HIV related complications, so they know I am serious about my sexual health. We make a date out of it — it is more fun when you do it that way. Getting tested with my new partners makes me feel confident in myself, and I will withhold sex from them until they get tested with me, and I feel peace of mind when we get our results back together.

Bianca’s story is one of our HIV Testing & Prevention program’s “Role Model Stories” in which real people describe how they made a change to reduce their risk and improve their health as it relates to HIV and AIDS. Names have been changed and the images are staged with actors.

I am a second generation American and the only daughter of immigrants from India. I feel blessed to be born in America, and to be inheriting a deep, rich, and complex culture from my ancestors. I come from a lineage of regal farmers and Warrior Saints. I am grateful to my parents for giving me the opportunity to pursue my passions. However, growing up in rural Southern America was quite the challenge. Being brown, big, tall and a female of color within a homogenous society, I was confronted with a lot of abuse, hate and discrimination.

As women of color living in America, we are taught to be strong; we learn from our mothers, sisters and daughters. Social norms are built on respect and the culture of silence and shame shrouds abuse. Many communities of color are so marginalized that such accusations would play into the mainstream bias of minorities being ‘anti-women.’ Thus, we (women) put on a strong face and thick skin to try to deal with abuse internally. Unfortunately, many women suffer in silence.

As a survivor, upon realizing it was not my fault or my shame to carry around, I found compassion for myself and others. I also realized no matter what color, culture or creed, a lot of women have unfortunately experienced something similar. When I realized I was not alone, I began to see my strength, my courage and my potential, and I started looking at life more positively. I found a community of women and felt hopeful for the future. I began to see myself as a person who is thriving.

The greatest gift I discovered was simply myself — pure and divine. My new-found inner strength inspired me to be a leader in global mental health and sex education.

Due to my experience, I strongly feel that comprehensive sex and mental health education taught in schools can majorly impact all children, especially those dealing with adverse or traumatic events. Not only will a student be able to access help if needed, but also learning about sex and mental health can prepare a child to build healthy relationships, learn how to identify emotions and respond to others in a constructive way.

Personally, I strive to learn about how different cultures view sexual violence and what they are doing to help remove stigma so victims can feel supported. I hope to educate adolescents to understand how sex and mental health are related, and to help others talk to youth about sex in an open and honest manner. Comprehensive sex education and trauma-informed care are lacking in the current educational systems and need to be taught to children from a young age. I feel the East and West could work together in combining philosophies about how to deal with sexuality and sexual assault. In India and the US, sexual assault and abuse has finally come to the surface. Whilst this may be frightening for some, it is a reality for a lot of people hiding in shame.

Being raised Indian in the West, I was exposed to many different expressions of sexuality. In America, there is an openness and acceptance about being sexy — -with sex toys, strip clubs and liberal fashion choices. However, the American media often has a very narrow idea of what it means to be sexy and beautiful. Generally, it has been posited as a European standard of beauty consisting of a blonde, tall and thin look. In addition, in the US, people will openly kiss, touch and hug in public and kids in America start dating sometimes as early as 9 years old. Contrary to the US, India, does not allow sex shops and strip clubs and traditional clothing is relatively more conservative. In India, curvy women are seen as ideal bodies, however, they have recently started to import western standards of beauty by selling face whitening creams to make women “fair and lovely.” Moreover, a public display of intimacy is only really accepted by people of the same gender in a platonic fashion and many Indians do not have any experience dating until it is time for marriage.

Globally, sex, and love in some contexts, is considered a taboo topic. Due to this repression of sex, adolescents may feel shame and guilt if they are not educated about what is a good touch and a bad touch, or what the best ways are to protect themselves. In reality, the abuse is a result of this suppression. Many women in India and the US feel ashamed to discuss their abuse due to fear of not being believed, being ignored or not being taken seriously. Many abusers count on the basic fact that the culture blames the victim, because the stigma associated with sexual assault would force a woman to keep quiet.

America and India both need shifts in ideology to embrace open, honest discussions about sex. Cultural relativity is defensible and attractive, and a source of hope; it means Indians and Americans do not have to continue the old ways if they are no longer working and they do not like them.

In pre-colonial India, sex was never seen as something taboo or simply for procreation. Sex was viewed as a sacred vehicle in order to unite with the divine. Sex stood for sacred energy exchange. Similarly, yoga which literally means “unite” is yoking yourself with the Supreme. In addition, Ayurveda, also known as the science of life (Ayur = life, Veda = science or knowledge), offers a body of wisdom designed to help people stay vibrant and healthy while realizing their full human potential. Only recently, have people started to understand the philosophy of yoga, Ayurveda and sexuality a bit more.

Modern day India struggles with women’s empowerment and suppression of sexuality, yet this is the land that gave us the Kamasutra all the way back in the 2nd century. Kama is the Hindu God of love, and the word “kama” means desire and “sutra” means guide. “Kama” is one of the four goals of Hindu life, so pleasure is part of life’s purpose. The ancient text has a large assortment of sex positions, but it goes beyond physical touch to dissect sensuality and the art of human love. A lengthy portion is dedicated to skills of seduction and physical beauty is meant to be emphasized much less than the ability to create beauty. For example, Ayurveda and the Kama Sutra recommends the best time to make love is between 10pm-11pm then replenish the body with oil massage, rest, and nourishing food and drinks like almond milk with dates, figs and saffron. Ancient India teaches us that sex is a great creative force that can be useful in elevating us if we have the right understanding. I recommend reading Kamasutra (not the Cosmo Kama Sutra sex manual) to learn about human behavior, secrets to a lasting relationship and the art of living.

The Kama Sutra is ahead of its time in the way it approaches, contextualizes, and describes how to best achieve ecstatic expression of life’s beauty. As time progressed and invaders came to India, they began to sexually assault and abuse the women and children. For this reason, people did not feel safe and began to cover themselves in order to not be recognized or raped. Thus, bringing us to a present-day suppression of sexuality that the whole world is now waking up to.

I am, of course, only skimming the surface here. Sexuality and Kama Sutra goes much deeper, and more importantly, it does something Western sexual studies shied away from: it uses the L-word. According to ancient India, only when we really make love can we turn sex into a transformative experience. I believe that now the West has embraced yoga and meditation, people are more open than ever to the idea that sex creates not only a physical, but also an emotional and spiritual bond between people. According to the Kama Sutra, there are four distinct types of love, each of which has its own place in the pyramid of self-realization. There is love by habit, or love that results from constant and continual performance of some act. There is love that proceeds entirely from ideas, which is called love “by imagination.” There is mutual love, and finally there is love that isn’t named as such, which is obvious to everyone but the lovers themselves.

The Kama Sutra implies that this is the most powerful love of all, for love is not categorized, boxed, or burdened by expectations or judgment. For, if love is expected, then it will always live in the moment to come.

The famous Indian sensuality, referenced incessantly around the world by mentions of Tantric life styles, Kama Sutras and erotic arts, will change the face of the world again in coming decades as westerners are looking to eastern practices for spirituality and self-realization. In addition, American sexuality, due to #metoo and other body positive movements, has been changing the face of what consent means and what it means to be beautiful and inclusive.

The newer generations have been trying to re-define the sexual and sensual vocabulary on their own, rather than being influenced by external and commercial influences.

In fact, people are already understanding that talking about issues and focusing light on dark areas which create ignorance, ill-health and many social evils like rapes, disrespect to women, abuse of children and suffering in general, can lead to better outcomes. These outdated ideas and the violence, it all comes from a place of misunderstanding. If we can give people education and seeds of being aware, we will create much greater change, balance and peace within ourselves and around the world.

During my time as a program coordinator at IWES, I have learned a lot of valuable lessons. Some about how to unpack heavy questions students may have, others about how to be comfortable teaching such a “taboo” subject as sex ed, but perhaps the most revealing lesson I’ve learned is that in order to succeed as a health educator you must get out of the public health bubble.

The public health bubble is something I’ve grown familiar with during both my undergraduate and postgraduate experiences. In the bubble, everyone has the same education as you, is passionate about the same causes as you, and is equipped with knowledge to make informed choices regarding sexual health. This bubble can be comforting; I mean who doesn’t enjoy being around like-minded individuals? Catching up on the latest socio-political issues that impact our field and carrying on with never ending banter was a lifestyle that spilled over into almost all realms of my life. At school I would take classes, digest the information with my peers, and apply it.

I maintained a similar routine in my professional experiences as well, and would have continued this mundane cycle if the training for my new position at IWES did not burst my bubble.

On my first day at IWES I was told that I would be completing Foundations training. Foundations training teaches the basic skills necessary to succeed in health education. Topics include classroom management, professionalism, and being open-minded to other viewpoints. The most interesting activity that I participated in for the training was called values clarification. In this activity we were given a list of statements and instructed to circle whether we strongly disagree, disagree, agree or strongly agree with them. The activity included controversial statements such as “There should be no age requirement in order to purchase the Plan B contraceptive pill.” After submitting our responses, the questionnaire was collected and redistributed to another person, one whose values most likely were not identical to our own. The facilitator would read each statement aloud and direct us to stand in the corner with the corresponding response. Within the corner we shared why someone might share that view even though we ourselves did not share it. This activity was the first step in learning how to not judge others’ values despite having a cultural and educational background that may contract them.

When I began to implement our comprehensive sexual health education curriculum Making Proud Choices (MPC) in local schools it became apparent to me how valuable the values clarification training was. I oftentimes would hear students whose opinions were based on misinformation, social norms, and cultural assumptions. On one occasion while implementing the STI portion of MPC, I informed the students about the HPV vaccine and how it could prevent strains of HPV that can cause genital warts and different types of cancers. One student began to express that they heard about vaccines causing autism and that it doesn’t really work.

Initially I was standing in the public health bubble and was so frustrated. I thought to myself that the student was belittling everything I just said and spreading more misinformation to his peers. Within the bubble it is easy to have a narrow perspective strictly based on evidence based research and educational experiences.

While this may be beneficial for giving information, it does not help to build rapport with students, validate their feelings, or debunk misconceptions that they’ve maintained as truth their entire life.

Upon closer reflection I realized that this student was trying to be heard and seen. The mistrust of the medical community, specifically among African Americans, has been well documented following the Tuskegee Syphilis Study.

My role as a health educator implementing a trauma-informed program is to acknowledge the experiences of the youth and provide information, not to seek to change their values or make them share mine.

The public health bubble can be a comfortable place to stand in, but not a place of growth. True growth comes from seeing the perspectives and reasoning of others, and being able to provide our youth with support regardless. It is easy to become one-dimensional and insensitive of the experiences of others, but the beauty of working in such a dynamic field is that there are always opportunities to learn something new and to evolve into a more understanding person each day.

Michelle* wrote to me in her journal after the first day of class, after I’d told the students that it was their space to ask me questions or just say hi. She told me about her two year-old daughter, who stays with her grandma during the day while Michelle finishes out her senior year of high school. I wrote back how I’d love to see a picture of her, and how good it was to have Michelle in the class. Knowing we would talk a lot about preventing pregnancy in the class, and not wanting her to feel excluded or ashamed, I emphasized that if anything made her feel uncomfortable she should let me know, and she could always choose whether to engage with it or not. As a teacher of a subject that has many personal implications for many students in the class, whether they share their personal stories with me initially or keep it to themselves, I try to make sure that each and every student knows their experiences are real, important, and unique, and they don’t have to be defined by them. This is one key part of the trauma-informed lens that we bring into the classroom with us as BY-LA facilitators.

I’ve taught mostly seniors in my time at IWES, some of whom have already had sexual experiences, gotten an STI or become a parent. They sometimes walk into the first day with bravado, greeting me with “Oh, you’re the sex lady right?” Often they’re ready to show off their knowledge, only to be amazed by human anatomy or the difference between HIV and AIDS.

Or they try to shock me with questions about wild scenarios, only to be greeted with a straight-face and a factual answer.

In this way we start to build trust, another component of a trauma-informed classroom, and students recognize that all questions are valid. With trust, we can also break down more complex and personal topics such as HIV stigma and myths about queer sex, discussions that probably don’t happen at school or at home.

When I told Michelle’s story to an acquaintance of mine who is a teacher in a New Orleans charter high school, she sort of smirked and said, “Isn’t it a little bit late for her to be taking sex ed?” I fumed.

The assumption that older students don’t need sex education because they’ve already become a statistic robs them of their ability to determine their futures (another hallmark of a trauma-informed practice!) and ignores the context that these students come from.

As we know from IWES’ Emotional Wellness Screeners, many students in our classes are navigating their lives with a history of trauma. Acknowledging these past and present harms that occur to so many children in New Orleans, and still insisting that they have futures and choices and a right to be informed can slowly help our communities repair and heal.

True change must come from a place of love and support, not from writing off a smart and talented young woman with her whole life ahead of her. She knows what she needs to be successful and to live a healthy life. All I have to do is ask.

*names have been changed to protect student privacy