Editor’s Note: Ken Takata originally wrote this story as a personal reflection, never intending to share it beyond his immediate family. But during Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month (AAPI) and inspired by a blood donation pledge to encourage fellow donors, Ken felt moved to share his experience more widely. What began as a private moment evolved into a powerful story of identity, healing and courage. As a proud member of the Red Cross AAPI+ resource group, Ken offers this heartfelt piece in the spirit of solidarity—honoring his heritage while encouraging others to face their own challenges and rediscover their strength.

By Ken Takata/American Red Cross

I had once been a blood donor. Then, nearly 40 years passed before I found myself trying again. 

The last time I donated was in June 1985, when I was a freshman at UCLA. Eager to contribute, I signed up without realizing how that single act would linger in my life. I don’t even remember where I donated—only that I loved the idea of giving blood. In high school, as Knights President, I had organized a blood drive, proud to rally others to the cause. 

But the one detail I do remember from that day? Feeling light-headed and nauseous—a fleeting  discomfort that, unknowingly, would define the next four decades. 

From Donor to Advocate 

Fast forward 39 years. Today, I am a dedicated volunteer for the American Red Cross, serving i n multiple roles, each aimed at strengthening communities and saving lives. As a Blood Transportation Specialist, I deliver lifesaving units to hospitals and medical centers across  Southern California. I have also taken on leadership roles, acting as a Disaster Relief Area Hot  Shots Lead, installing smoke alarms and educating communities on fire safety, and responding  to crises as a Disaster Action Team member. 

Despite my deep commitment, something felt unfinished. I didn’t just want to talk about my involvement with the Red Cross—I wanted to embody its mission in the most tangible way  possible. Giving blood had lingered in the back of my mind, a loose thread I was determined to  weave back into my life. I believed that being a donor again would solidify my work, allowing me to save more lives in a way that extended beyond logistics, planning and emergency response.

A Shocking Discovery 

So, I signed up to donate at a local Masonic Lodge hosting a blood drive. Nervous, I brought my  wife for moral support—just in case history repeated itself and I felt unwell afterward. When I arrived, I checked in with the Blood Donor Ambassador, ready to take the next step. But then, as I sat for the preliminary screening, the nurse noticed a block on my account. 

“You’re not eligible to donate today,” she informed me gently. 

A sinking feeling settled in my stomach. She couldn’t explain why, but handed me a toll-free number to call. Confused, I stepped into the parking lot and dialed the number, bracing myself  for answers. 

Then, I learned something completely unexpected: in June 1985, my donation had been flagged due to an HIV-reactant in my blood, permanently disqualifying me from donating. 

I was stunned. The person on the phone explained how, in the 1980s, HIV and AIDS were still l argely unknown, and the Red Cross had exercised extreme caution in screening donations. l istened as they shared their uncertainty—no digital records existed from that era and they had no way of knowing whether I had been properly notified. My mind reeled. I had never engaged in any behavior commonly associated with HIV  transmission risk. I had since lived a healthy life, raised two children and never received a  single warning about my status. If I had known, I would have rushed to a doctor immediately. 

Retracing the Past 

In the parking lot of the Masonic Lodge, I told my wife what had happened. She stared at me, wide-eyed, trying to process how something this significant had gone undiscovered for decades.

Over the following weeks and months, I wrestled with a troubling possibility: Had I received a letter in 1985? 

I couldn't escape the feeling that I had received a letter and had thrown it away, too ashamed to face it. As a 19-year-old, the word HIV felt like an accusation, a stigma I didn’t understand. Shame and disbelief swallowed me whole. I had come from a Japanese-American household, where conversations about sex—let alone something as terrifying as an HIV-related flag—were nonexistent.

So, if a letter had arrived, I likely ignored it. I might have buried the fear, choosing to move forward without confronting what it meant. 

The Road Back to Blood Donation 

Three blood tests spaced out over several months allowed me to regain my status as a  qualified donor. After nearly 40 years, I was back on the list. 

Now, I am committed to donating regularly, as often as my age and health allow. 

This journey was more than just about giving blood—it was about redemption, about closure and about confronting the silent fears of my past. 

I won’t let shame or uncertainty silence me again. After nearly 40 years, I gave again—this time knowing exactly what it meant. This time, I understood the weight of my donatio and I will continue giving for as long as I am able.

Every blood donation has the power to save lives—and behind every donation is a story worth telling. If you’ve given blood or been impacted by a donation, we encourage you to share your experience here. Your story could inspire others to roll up a sleeve and help someone in need. To make an appointment to donate blood or learn more, visit redcrossblood.org.

About the American Red Cross:

The American Red Cross shelters, feeds and provides comfort to victims of disasters; supplies about 40% of the nation’s blood; teaches skills that save lives; distributes international humanitarian aid; and supports veterans, military members and their families. The Red Cross is a nonprofit organization that depends on volunteers and the generosity of the American public to deliver its mission. For more information, please visit redcross.org or CruzRojaAmericana.org, or follow us on social media.