Red Ribbon

My first essay in college was a first-person narrative of a memory.
I wrote about the time in my life when I first dealt with death.
It was a serious piece... with some dark comedy... something I remember the teacher liking.
The story? I retold the death of my mom's older brother, something that happened when I was four, but it impacted me so much, I can still recall most of what went down.
I described what happened when Mom got the phone call telling her her brother died, her reaction, our trip to Oakland for his funeral, arriving at my uncle's house and being completely lost and confused, and finally, the wake. I described how my mom's older sister made me kneel next to her-- in front of my uncle's open casket-- to pray, and how I was being a fidgety four-year-old. In my fidgeting, I managed to rip off one of my shirt's buttons, stick it up my nose, freaked out when I couldn't get it out... and I then scream "Get it out! I don't want to end up in a box like him!" And bam! I learned what death was.

That was my story. The details being how I remember them occurring in 1989, now being re-told in 2003.

Fast-forward to the summer of 2009.
I was stuck in the truck with Mom, Rafa, Sister, and Godson, coming back home after our summer in Mexico.
Around Arizon, I noticed my sister was texting back and forth with Mooney over some family problems that had gone down in Vegas while we were gone. I notice when Sister gets quiet... and her expression changes... to... I can't really explain... she was upset, but in a way I had never seen before.
I was sitting in the back of the quad-cab of the truck, directly behind the front passenger seat. Sister was sitting next to me. She whispered:
"How did my uncle die?"
Me: Complications from pneumonia, you know that.
Sister: I thought so... but... look.
She showed me the conversation she had been having with Mooney via text.
Mooney: I'm just worried he'll end up like *Uncle*
Sister: Dead?
Mooney: Yeah... but, of the same thing.
Sister: ... Pneumonia?
Mooney: Oh dear... you don't know.
Sister: ???
Mooney: He had AIDS...

I wanted to vomit. My eyes filled with tears, but I couldn't do anything... not with Mom directly in front of me, and my brother driving us.
Sister and I just stared at each other... tears building, our hands over our mouths, and only the iPhone lighting our face.
They lied to us...

*****

I remember Mom traveling to the bay when my uncle was in the hospital. I remember that the most, because I had horrible separation anxiety. She went out there twice, I believe... and I remember the stories she'd bring back about her stay in the hospital.
He had tubes down his throat, so he was unable to talk. He would communicate with Mom and Mooney's dad by writing on a notebook. Mom says she remembers how he would beg her not to leave him alone with his wife. He would also try to cry sometimes... but even that was complicated.

We asked Mom what had put Uncle in such a bad state.
Mom: He worked at a very early time of day. One day in November, when he was starting to get sick and had barely gotten out of the shower, he went outside to turn off the sprinklers... and he caught pneumonia. He was admitted into the hospital to get it under control, but he only got worse.

That was the story.
And I was gullible. And I never questioned beyond that.

*****

As I sat in the truck, fighting the urge to cry... and vomit... my mind raced to the day I kneeled in front of my uncle's casket.
He had make-up on... he... had... if he died from advanced stages of AIDS... he must of had...
black marks.
I whispered to my sister
"I remember... I remember the marks. They're in the photos... they tried covering them up with foundation... oh my God..."
My sister continued talking to Mooney.
Turns out my uncle rounded up his children when they were old enough to have "the talk," and told them how his older brother had died. He told them the truth.

Mooney'sDad: He made a mistake. It was the 80's... no one really knew about this illness... and he had unprotected sex with a prostitute.

That's all I can really remember of the explanation. I was... shocked... too shocked to listen... to retain anything beyond that.

He was the sweetest man. He was a patient man. He was the ideal father figure. The perfect brother.
He was the favorite son, the favorite brother, the favorite uncle... and everyone wanted it that way.
And I truly believe that was the truth. He was awesome. He was amazing. He did not deserve that end.

Sister and I haven't told anyone in our family. We haven't asked Dad, or Mom, or Rafa.
I have pried a little, asking Mom what she thinks about AIDS once in a while... bringing up my uncle's death... talking about promiscuity... but I get nothing. Mom actually gets irritated with the topic of AIDS.
I don't know if it's just her being in denial, or she really doesn't know the truth behind her beloved brother's death.

I don't know how long I'll hold on to this truth.
This is actually my first time even mentioning it... anywhere. I haven't even written it in any of my paper journals.
I've lived the last year and a half wondering if anyone else knows. I wonder if when a friend from Hometown hangs out with me, the thing they think is "Oh... AnoMALIE... her uncle died of AIDS, you know?" Or if they look at me with pity, wondering if I even know the truth.

I hear people joke about AIDS... and I just want to... I want to punch the fucking shit out of them. I want to close their windpipe shut with my bare hands.
But... if I do that, I'll have to explain myself.
AIDS claimed a life in my family. Nothing about it is funny. It creates a void in the life of SO many people.

I can't say it loudly... not yet. For now, I have to settle for sporting red on December first... in support of the millions affected and infected.
World AIDS Day, estoy con ustedes.

In my heart, always and forever.