Memoirs of the Passing, Part II

But not everyone is innocent, and shame is seldom unwarranted.

Take, for example, a man I know who recently revealed to me — in casual conversation, and very matter-of-factly — that he is (and has long been) HIV positive.

The news, I am sorry to say, didn't surprise me in the least. I like this man well enough — he is friendly in passing, but also very quick to divulge the details of his past in a way that sometimes puts me at unease... a past that involves a drug abuse (including heroin), and a rather carefree sexual existence in the 70s and 80s, devoid of any precautions and including a stint as a male prostitute.

[His details are far more graphic, but I will spare you those.]

And it's for those reasons that the news of his illness barely phased me. But here's what really bothered me: his clientale, he said, consisted primarily of married men — many with children. And even when his prostituting days were over, the majority of his one-night stands were with men in "serious," heterosexual relationships.

These were guys with girlfriends, he said. Guys who were generally more, eh, "adventurous" than the "out" guys because they wanted to make up for lost time.

I listened to these stories and asked no questions, though they occured to me from time to time. I didn't ask him if he continued having unprotected sex after his diagnosis. I didn't ask him if he'd done the math to find out when he might have contracted the virus, and contacted everyone who may have subsequently been infected. I didn't ask him if he'd donated blood or plasma or if he felt guilty about his affairs with married men, knowing that those men would go on to infect their wives.

No good could come from those questions, I decided, and even less from his answers.

So I listened, and nodded. I thought of Magic Johnson and the wife he infected from his heterosexual escapades. I thought of Elliot Spitzer and men at large. I thought of the other gay guys I know who take every precaution and lead very moral, clean-cut lives.

And I thought of my childhood friend, and wondered what he'd be doing today if he were alive.

[In case you wondered what started all of this.]

Memoirs of the Passing

Everyone traded in those days.

My ham sandwich for her peanut butter. My necklace for her dog-eared copy of The Princess Bride.

His calculator watch for my tin pencil case.

It was pink, I remember, and bore the logo of some sort of bubble gum: Bubbalicious; maybe Hubba Bubba. Whatever it was, it was the pride of my collection and he wanted it.

And how could I refuse him, particularly when his offer was so generous? He being one of the earliest crushes of my youth (Erik Estrada and Hulk Hogan notwithstanding), with his dark hair and eyes; ivory skin; that inscrutable cowlick; and a smile as ornery as it was innocent.

Kids loved him — I mean, he wasn't the playground jock (in hindsight, I don't recall ever seeing him on the playground — or in gym, for that matter) or the class wunderkind. But he was a good kid all the same, and even I — at the young age of eight — could see it.

And so it was to him that I parted with my beloved pencil case, making regular visits to his desk to see what treasures it stored. And in turn: he'd give me the occasional scented pencil or dinosaur-shaped eraser.

You know — valuable stuff.

The school year passed in kind, and then the summer, but then a funny thing happened when classes resumed:

He was nowhere to be seen. Not in my homeroom, not in any. He had disappeared as if overnight, an absence not easily missed by the dozens of kids who listed him among their friends.

In time we learned that he'd transferred to another, much larger school in our county for reasons that remained unclear. But he was somewhere, at least, and we took solace in knowing that he hadn't yet vanished from this planet altogether.

At some point that year, a class field trip took us to the county courthouse for a mock signing of the United States Constitution. Rumors quickly began to circulate that Steve* was there — that he was part of the elementary school choir belting out patriotic tunes from the rafters.

I looked for him as my class rounded the building, eventually entering into the room where kids my age were dressed in robes. I looked up to see him smiling down, breaking form to wave to me (and perhaps whoever I was with — I seem to have blocked out the the faces of my companions in this particular memory). I waved back, smiling, wondering if his new school desk housed that old familiar tin.

***

It is funny to me how sometimes the particulars of a memory will escape me: like the faces of my friends on that trip, or the actual grade I was in when my classmates and I split into smaller groups and played a game designed to generate discussion of current events (not to mention, learn more about our peers).

The game went a little like this:

You'd draw a card that asked a Yes or No question about a current event with an ethical twist that forced one of your classmates to determine how they would handle a situation. So you'd draw your card, read the question silently to yourself, write down on a piece of paper the person in your group that you were going to pose the question to, and then whether your felt their answer would be "Yes" or "No."

When Todd drew his card and then turned to me, I wasn't nervous in the least. From a young age I'd had an understanding of worldly, political events — couple that with my firm belief system, and I had nothing to fear.

Until I heard his question.

"If you were the principal of an elementary school and you found out that one of your students had AIDS, would you allow them to stay?"

I should add here that the Ryan White story was not far removed from us, neither in distance nor in chronology (in fact, Ryan was the age of my older sister). And so much the particulars about the disease (including its pathology) hadn't yet reached the masses. There were rumors that it could be transmitted through sweat; there were rumors of angry, HIV+ patients spitting on the open wounds of non-infected people in hopes of contaminating them. We didn't know yet if mosquitoes, in all their blood lust, could transmit the virus, and suddenly the idea of being "bitten" was more than just a minor inconvenience — it was something to lose sleep over.

All of these thoughts buzzed through my pre-pubescent mind as I formulated my response, still fumbling for words and pleading to be allowed to qualify my response.

"Well, can we make sure they don't participate in activities where they could get hurt?" I asked. "And will all of their teachers have rubber gloves just in case?"

But my inquisitor wouldn't allow exceptions. "I think you just have to answer 'yes' or 'no,'" he said.

My babbling persisted all the same: I said that it was very unlikely to be the kid's fault that they were sick, and I'd really like for him/her to be able to stay, but we knew so little about the disease. I said I worried about how the kid would be treated if other students found out, with my response fluctuating between nervous extremes: more sweat oozing from my pores in those few minutes than in all the hours I spent — years later — huddled into a computer lab taking comprehensive exams for my graduate studies.

Todd looked at me, a curious expression magnified (and yet distorted) by his bottle-cap glasses.

"I guess since we know so little..." I paused. "And since I can't guarantee anything... I'd have to say 'no' — at least for now. But maybe once we learned more, that could change."

"So you're saying 'no?'" he asked.

"If I have to choose one or the other with so little information — yes. I'm saying 'no.'"

"Wow," he said, throwing his card onto the table. "I thought if there was anyone in this room who'd say 'yes,' it'd be you."

I don't believe I've ever been quite so ashamed of myself.

***

Again, years become hazy as I cannot recollect the day it was when I saw his picture in the paper, a friend having called to tell me to turn to page three.

I didn't recognize him at first: only the name, there in bold at the top of the page, followed so loudly by his age — was it 18? Was it 19? Maybe 20? Why can't I remember?!

"Oh my God," I said. "What happened?"

I read the obituary looking for the tiniest morsel of a detail. But little was given — just enough to make us wonder as the rumors circulated, later to be clarified as fact.

He was a hemophiliac, an illness that created the need for transfusions at the most unfortunate time in our nation's history.

And however long he was sick, none of us knew. Did he have it when we knew him? Did he know? Does it matter?

And I wish I could fill in the gaps. I wish I could paint — beautifully and flawlessly — the recollections of my life.

Because there are times, I swear to you, when I hope to God that I was asked that question (as I believe I was) two or three years after he had disappeared from our school. That he never had to hear me say that — yes, Steve, if it'd been up to me — that I may have lacked to courage to stand up with my friend.

That cute boy with ivory skin, dark eyes, a cowlick, and a mischievous grin.

And yet: somewhere in my mind's eye I imagine him joining us as that table, his face a curious mixture of fear and disappointment as I clumsily worked my way to my final response. And once again I feel, burning deep in the pit of my stomach, a certain shame that will never be undone.


*Not his real name.

Memoirs for the Living

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. ~Walt Whitman

---

No amount of sidestepping will keep you from walking on the dead.

Whether by the crunch of autumn under your feet — or the dearth of space between tombstones — the result is a mere inevitability.

And so it goes between the Lights and the Hurts, the Fausts and the Fickles: any attempt at getting closer to the memorial itself means you're rattling old bones beneath you.

This worry has a funny way of rousing old fears concerning death: not so much the end of my life, per se, as the end of every life. Or more particularly: the end of generations and families and centuries such that one day maybe all the cemeteries as we know them will be full (Sorry! No vacancy!) in which case: what will we do with all of those bodies?

(Or so my eight-year-old-brain once pondered, visiting a cemetery for the first time.)

But there are some of us who go all the same, not just for funerals but for funerals in passing: marveling at old markers and quirky names. Photographing the changing leaves, and the art that sometimes rivals the most noted museums.

[I might argue that some of man's finest work is in the grave.]



But it is impossible, at any such instance, to not become invariably reverent and yet: so sad for our ilk (the living).

Everywhere under my feet, those bones. Those people. People who breathed, laughed, cried and loved. People who were hurt and scorned and, in most cases, died a bit sooner than they'd planned.

[Not that we ever really prepare for these things, but bear with me.]

It is impossible to think of these dead and not immediately think of the converse: the living who will — despite the best efforts of 16th century explorers and modern science alike — invariably join them.***There was a president, so noted by a tiny plaque behind his headstone (and still further back, the American flag tangled in tree limbs).


There were the president's men.


There was the criminal.


And a hint of the woman — that infamous Lady in Red — who loved him.


There was the poet: remembered only by those educated in his state, and forgotten by anyone who wasn't.


There were mothers...


And children...

And tokens to remind us of just how terribly difficult it is for the living to part with the dead.


But time, that implacable vixen, has a funny way of changing everything (specifically) in that it doesn't change a thing (generally). That is to say: the leaves change, snow rolls in and the flowers bloom. And there's not a damn thing we can do to stop any of it.

[Global warming notwithstanding.]


In fact, you might even say that our universal fear of death all boils down to this:

The fear of the unknown (the afterlife). And the fear of being forgotten (life).

Between these two worlds — between these two fears — it's a wonder we ever make it through the day without losing our lunch.

But, listen, there is beauty in this bittersweet.

I dare you to look at this



And tell me otherwise.

Flight from Death (Movie Review)

I'm hopelessly behind on about a gazillion things, and — sadly — don't have the time to do this documentary justice while it's still fresh in my brain.

Rather, allow me just to say that if you've ever wondered why (not how, but why) civilizations exist, or you've ever wondered why people get married and have families and spend their days occupied by everything (or so they think) other than their ultimate fate, you should read Ernest Becker's amazing text, Denial of Death.

Just don't blame me for the long lasting side effects, which include a certain clarity about life that revolves around our mortal conclusion.

And then, after you've read that once. Or twice. Or maybe three times.

Watch the documentary that was inspired by Becker's philosophical treatise. That's where Flight from Death: The Quest for Immortality (2003) comes into play. The film has its gaps and shortcomings, but for the most part it offers a fairly accurate visual interpretation of Denial — a text which is not the least bit short of genius.

FINAL GRADE: B+

"All persons, living and dead, are purely coincidental." ~Kurt Vonnegut

I can't think of too many people as chronically witty, intelligent and prolific as this man. Of those whose existence temporarily coincided with mine, that is.*


*See, Washington? David Letterman isn't the only good "thing" to come out of Indiana.