The Power Of Inclusion (The 4th of 5)

I tell a lot of stories in my class. That’s not a surprise to anybody and everybody in my life. I can talk. Sometimes, I should speak less. I’ll work on it.

Earlier this year, one of my students wrote a note at the bottom of an assignment. “I can’t imagine living through all the stuff you’ve been through.”

Time for a conference.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know… 9/11. The space shuttle explosion. Watergate. New Coke. Watching the KKK march in the streets. AIDS.”

While tragic, I don’t think we should put the New Coke fiasco in the same realm as September 11^th and the AIDS epidemic. It was a charming conversation. The innocence of youth.

I’ve given a lot of thought to that student’s words.

My mother retired from teaching. Sometime. I don’t remember the year. Big party. Tears. Laughter. Songs. Several former students returned. Too many people spoke. Nobody called the police, but I thought it was a possibility.

Something wasn’t quite right. The mood was off, just a bit, but I didn’t know why.

It finally ended. Finally. A long day’s journey into night. I filled the car with flowers and cards and gifts. The official departure hugging line circled the room too many times. I knew we were nowhere close to being done.

The souls holding down the end of the line belonged to familiar faces. Gretchen. Terry. A few others.

One of the “others” was one of my mother’s all-time favorites. She had returned to Winston-Salem especially for the moment. She was standing alone, well behind everybody else.

That was it. That girl-woman-lady had AWAYS picked with me. We talked trash on every occasion. We had been in the same room for hours, and she had not said a word. No hug. No kiss on the cheek.

She was beautiful, as she always was. Her outfit immaculate. Makeup perfect.

Something wasn’t right. I left her alone. I joined the line with Gretchen and Terry as Margaret bid farewell to the last few.

Finally, there were three in the room. Me. Margaret. And her.

My mother, while independent and free-spirited, was never indifferent to one of her children.

I knew better than to speak. An unusual moment, but my mouth remained shut.

“What’s wrong?”

The tears began. This wasn’t regular crying. This was soul-wrenching despair. I was unsettled. She collapsed into my mama’s arms.

I watched. And listened. She explained.

HIV positive. This was in the time when HIV was practically a death sentence, AIDS a specter on the very near horizon.

We didn’t really know how the virus was spread. Stay away. Don’t touch.

The three of us sat in that hotel ballroom for what felt like hours. It was time to go. My mother was sure a doctor could help. A smart physician. A compassionate human being.

I kept thinking about the time one of my mother’s students had come to our home and sat on our couch while telling us that she had contracted a sexually transmitted disease. After she left, my mother sprayed the entire house with Lysol.

How were we going to say goodbye this time? I didn’t want AIDS. I didn’t want my mama to get AIDS.

We walked to the parking lot. I looked at the girl-woman-lady. Her eyes were the loneliest eyes I’d ever seen. Abject desolation and isolation. I didn’t know what to do.

My mother hugged her and brushed her hair out of her eyes.

My turn. What. The. Hell. Really, mother?

I hugged the girl-woman-lady with everything I had. Both arms. I picked her up. A bear hug. I kissed her on the cheek.

“Love you.”

“But I am giving you a new command. You must love each other, just as I have loved you.” – John 13:34

It was brief. A moment. It mattered. I think the realization she was not alone made all the difference.

It’s been years. The girl-woman-lady is well. She is loved.