Iris Long

Iris Long, a brilliant chemist whose curiosity was matched only by her fierce compassion, passed away peacefully on April 8, 2026, at the age of 91. Born on New Year’s Day 1935 in a modest Brooklyn home, Iris grew up with a chemistry set on the kitchen table and a stack of newspaper clippings about women breaking barriers in science. She turned those early sparks into a lifetime of discovery, first earning her Ph.D. in organic chemistry from Columbia and later joining the faculty at a research institute where she mentored generations of students. But it was her work beyond the lab—her tireless activism with ACT UP in the 1980s—that truly defined her legacy. When the AIDS crisis struck, Iris didn’t retreat to the safety of her bench; she marched, she spoke at town halls, and she helped translate complex antiviral research into plain language that could save lives. Her handwritten flyers, scattered across community centers, bore the same meticulous care she gave to a laboratory notebook, and they became lifelines for countless families terrified by a disease they barely understood. At home, Iris was the heart of a bustling family that adored her irrepressible humor and her legendary Sunday dinners. Her son, Michael, still laughs about the time she turned a batch of caramel sauce into a chemistry demonstration, complete with bubbling beakers and a delighted chorus of “Eureka!” from the kids. Her daughter, Leah, remembers late‑night conversations where Iris would pull out a battered notebook and sketch out reaction mechanisms alongside plans for the next neighborhood garden. The garden, in turn, was Iris’s sanctuary—a place where she cultivated heirloom tomatoes, lavender, and a stubborn patch of rosemary that she swore had a personality all its own. Neighbors would often find her kneeling in the soil, humming old folk songs, her hands dirty but her eyes bright, reminding everyone that science and nature are just two sides of the same wonder. Friends recall Iris’s boundless energy at ACT UP meetings, where she would stand up with a beaker of coffee in one hand and a stack of research abstracts in the other, ready to argue for evidence‑based policies with the same fervor she used to argue for the perfect soufflé. Her colleagues at the lab still speak of her “Iris Effect”: a mix of rigorous data analysis, compassionate listening, and an uncanny ability to make the most complex concepts feel like a friendly chat over tea. She taught us that activism isn’t just protest signs—it’s the steady, patient work of translating science into hope, of holding a hand while the world changes. Iris leaves behind a tapestry of love: a husband who still keeps her favorite lab coat hanging in the closet, two children, five grandchildren who inherited her quick wit and love of puzzles, and a community forever altered by her courage. Her legacy lives on in the countless activists who cite her research in their fight for health equity, in the students who recall her gentle encouragement to “never be afraid of a bad experiment,” and in the garden that blooms each spring, a quiet reminder that even after the toughest seasons, life finds a way to flourish. We will miss her bright laugh, her endless curiosity, and the way she made each of us feel seen and valued. Rest gently, dear Iris—you taught us that love, science, and activism are all, at their core, acts of hope.