On a late, lazy Sunday afternoon in early April, Sturdevant, in cutoff fatigues and a white tank top stained with barbecue sauce stretched over his generous belly, was flipping chicken and rib tips on his grill. He had gathered his family — nearly two dozen sons and daughters, some related by blood, most not — to his house in South Jackson for a family barbecue. His daughter Tenisha, who had moved in with her two children in November, handed off 6-month-old Kory Cedric to her father. Sturdevant nuzzled his grandson’s chubby cheek before passing him to one of his unrelated “sons,” Cord, who lifted the laughing baby high over his head.

Sturdevant had gathered the crew to announce that he was taking a new job. He would be the manager of the SPOT — Safe Place Over Time — a new program located on the third floor of the Jackson Medical Mall in a former eyewear shop, funded by ViiV Healthcare, a pharmaceutical company that produces a dozen H.I.V. medications. He would continue to provide services and support for young gay and bisexual men and transgender women and still consult for My Brother’s Keeper. The new gig offered Sturdevant autonomy, but also $8,000 more per year. “I had to wait until after Christmas to get presents for the children and grandchildren,” he said, sipping cognac and Coke, ice cubes bouncing against the sides of a coffee mug, his cheeks rosy with cheer. “I always want to be able to take care of my family,” he added, “to be able to say, ‘Don’t worry; I got you.’ ”

Despite the persistent anti-L.G.B.T. stigma and entrenched social and economic issues that cling to the South, Sturdevant feels a complicated, bone-deep tie to the people and the place. When he encourages his “sons” and “daughters” to take care of themselves and others, he is echoing the love and acceptance he received from his own large family. After years of hiding, when he came out to his mother in his 20s, she told him, “I love you regardless.” When his family eventually found out that he was sick, his mother and sister drove up to where he was living in Memphis, along with six carloads of aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and cousins. They tried to serve him plates laden with down-home food that he was too ill to eat and did their best to love him back to health. In the hospital, he finally admitted to his mother he had AIDS. “She told me, ‘Boy, you gonna be all right; God got you,’ ” he recalls, tearing up. In the end, they took him home. He moved back to his mother’s house in Metcalfe, with somebody from the sprawling network of nearly 100 family members always close by, until he recovered. “They saved my life, and I’ll never forget that,” he said.

Black gay and bisexual men and the organizations and activists that support them have come to the painful realization that the nation and society have failed them and that they must take care of themselves and one another. Their group names and slogans reflect a kind of defiant lift-as-we-climb self-reliance: My Brother’s Keeper; Us Helping Us in Washington; the Saving Ourselves Symposium that takes place in Jackson this week; Our People, Our Problem, Our Solution, the tag line of the Black AIDS Institute. Since last October, the young men in Sturdevant’s orbit have been supported by the fragile scaffolding that “Mr. Ced” has constructed around them and with them. Jordon has gained weight and is up and walking. Marq has promised to stay on his meds and has begun calling Sturdevant “Dad.” Benjamin Jennings has a new job as a corrections officer at a prison north of Jackson. Jermerious Buckley is “mother,” as he puts it, to six gay “children” of his own.

But even Sturdevant knows he can’t save everyone. A shadow passes over his face and his voice grows low when he talks about the one young man he couldn’t save. He remains haunted by him. A few years ago, a co-worker, Dot, suggested Sturdevant talk to a quiet fair-skinned man who was struggling with his H.I.V. diagnosis. “I told him my story and let him know, ‘You can do this, too,’ ” Sturdevant recalled. “He was in denial and very secretive, but still, he got into treatment and was doing good.”

But when Sturdevant saw him again in January 2016, he had stopped taking his meds and had taken a bad turn. “He was nothing but skin and bones,” Sturdevant said, looking down at his hands. “His eyes were bloodshot red. It almost looked like they were bleeding. We took him to the clinic, but the doctor said, ‘Get him to the hospital immediately.’ ”

For the next two months, Sturdevant and Dot kept a close eye on the young man, scolding, nagging and pleading with him to stay in treatment and to tell his family the truth so he would have someone to support him. On a Friday in March 2016, Sturdevant arranged to visit him and take medication to his house. But when he arrived, there was no answer. “I banged on the door, and then constantly called him all weekend,” Sturdevant said. “On Monday, they told me he had passed away.”

Sturdevant was devastated. Sometimes when he closes his eyes, he said, he still sees the smiling, fit and slender 27-year-old. “I felt like I had failed,” he said, choking up. “I kept thinking, He was going to get better, so how could this happen?” He took a breath, looking uncharacteristically tired, his eyes focused on a point off in the distance. “Listen, I know I can’t be there night and day for everyone. But at this point now, I feel like I can’t lose another young man to this disease.”