Jesse

Several of my friends have told me over the past few days that they are thinking about me because of Father’s Day and my relationship with my father is relatively non-existent.

While I appreciate that, I really don’t need the concern, no matter how well intentioned, because I know too much about the origins of the day (and Mother’s Day) as a marketing ploy to bolster post-Easter sales (originally Memorial Day was not a big retail day) to really care that much about it.

If my friends hadn’t mentioned it, I probably would have hardly noticed the day at all.

The only reason I observe Mother’s Day is because my mother will attempt to engage in emotional blackmail if I don’t. Knowing that, I’m not sure why she thinks that my expression of enforced appreciation is completely genuine thereby, but I’m not responsible for her internal narratives.

And I do appreciate my mother—but I don’t need a “day in the year” to tell her.

It’s not that I don’t recognize good parenting and see it as important. I’m genuinely happy for people who have, or had, good parents. I’ve also know/have known some of those good parents, and it gives me hope in the state of the world.

So, in ‘honor’ of this day that some insist I remember even if it isn’t necessary or personally meaningful for me, I will tell the true story about my friend Jesse.

I met Jesse in AA. He was a slight, pretty, young gay man who was whip smart and very committed to figuring out what is often called “the spiritual side” of the AA program.

The only problem was, Jesse was also a committed agnostic. He came from rural evangelical white southern boy roots, his family from Hannibal, Missouri and he was trying to get as far away from all that as possible.

The two of us would get into vigorous discussions about God, spiritual practice and meditation and I think we both enjoyed “arguing” for the sake of it—because it was clear he was experimenting, playing with ideas and concepts, trying them on for size.

Jesse was also very concerned about AIDs, which was killing people in the Kansas City, MO and the Gay AA group right and left. He always practiced safe sex and even gave up the bar scene for the most part just to be on the cautious side. He managed to survive past the worst part of the surge into the late 1980’s.

Word came to the AA group one day that Jesse was in the hospital. Jesse had been raped by a man who was HIV positive. The attacker had contracted the disease from a female prostitute with whom he had shared bodily fluids and needles. He was scared, became angry and decided that he needed to “avenge” himself on the first gay man he could.

Jesse was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The attacker raped Jesse repeatedly and almost beat him to death. While Jesse recovered from the beating, he had been infected with AIDs. (The attacker was caught and convicted of a new law they passed for him: attempted murder).

It took a while for the disease to set in, of course, and in the meantime, Jesse refused to allow his condition to hinder his emotional growth and development.

Jesse met another beautiful young man named Anthony, whose family was actively involved in the Black evangelical community in Kansas City, MO. Anthony had custody of his sister’s two children because she was an active drug addict whom much of the rest of the family had disowned. Rather than give up the children to foster care, Anthony took care of them himself.

When Jesse and Anthony got together, Jesse committed himself, even with his advancing illness, to being a parent to these two children.

I only found out about this part of the story during Jesse’s memorial service—and this is how that went.

I was very absorbed in my own problems and in graduate school during Jesse’s last days. At one point, I got a call that he specifically wanted to talk to me, which was significant because the disease had advanced to the point that he couldn’t see or speak anymore and could only hear what others said and nod or move in some way to reply.

At the time, the thought of facing him in that condition was too much for me (I had witnessed so many friends die), so I put off going to see him—and then finally it was too late. Not taking the time and getting over myself to respond to his request is one very real personal regret I carry with me.

But I was not going to miss his memorial service and reception.

Still, I was late to the service, although this was largely due to my partner who was dragging her own feet about going—she had been even closer to Jesse than I was.

After the memorial service, we all gathered at Anthony’s and Jesse’s apartment for a small reception. The food had been provided by Jesse’s friends at the Gay AA group and many of Anthony’s relatives were there.

So, here we were, a large group of mostly white gay, lesbian and queer recovering drunks and junkies and a large group of Black and very Christian family members in one tiny apartment.

Jesse had died in the master bedroom upstairs with Anthony and the two children attending and the kids flitted nervously between the two groups of adults that normally would have had nothing to do with each other: the gay group stayed in the kitchen poking the food and the Black straight relatives sat stiffly in the front room. It was very tense.

Anthony invited me to go upstairs and see the place where Jesse had died. Actually, we’d all been invited, but I was the only one that accepted the offer. He led me to the medical bed where Jesse had suffered through his final days, blind, mute, eventually mostly deaf, in terrible racking pain.

As I sat there looking at the bedroom, which had been organized completely around Jesse’s care, the two children came and sat with me and started to tell me how they had sat with Jesse during his last hours, how they had watched every exhalation and rallied after every repeated inhalation.

“If we thought he wasn’t going to breathe again, we’d all start touching him and praying,” said the little boy. “Even though we knew that soon he would stop.” I was so overwhelmed by the simple love and presence of death that I couldn’t even cry. All I could do was ask Jesse’s forgiveness that I hadn’t come sooner.

When I went back downstairs, I decided not to go back into the kitchen but instead sat down on the couch next to one of Anthony’s aunts. She acknowledged me, but wouldn’t really engage.

The little girl had started running up and down the stairs and was clearly agitated. Finally, she stopped about half way up and looking out over the sea of adults started to tell us important things, things I’ve never forgotten.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with all of you,” she began. “Jesse was the only daddy I’ve ever known. I don’t know who my father is.” (She made that distinction and she was about 6 years old). “Jesse talked and listened to us and took us for Chinese food. He never yelled at us and taught us that stealing was wrong.”

She went on to tell us about the Halloween costumes that Jesse and Anthony made for them and the museums they went to and how Jesse taught them about science and how to say please and thank you. She went on for about five minutes.

She finished with, “So, I don’t know what’s wrong with you adults that you can’t even talk to each other or come up and see where Jesse died. He is the only daddy I’ve ever had and he’ll always be my daddy.”

And, with that she flounced up the stairs.

To say that a deep profound silence echoed in that front room is to express the single largest understatement ever. Without thinking, I turned to Anthony’s aunt and said, “I think we got told.”

She burst into laughter and that broke the tension, at least much of it. Although Anthony’s family and Jesse’s friends didn’t become bosom buddies that day, at least we could have conversation about Jesse, Anthony and good will.

I don’t know what happened to Anthony, although I’m pretty sure he retained custody of his niece and nephew. I often wondered about how he picked up his life afterwards, but as he was not in the groups I communicated with, I lost track of him. I think of him often-wishing him and his family well.

Jesse’s family only showed up to collect his body, which they took with them, forthwith, to plunk in a white southern family plot far away from Black or homosexual people. I’m pretty sure that Jesse isn’t around to give a shit about that—except that Anthony has no way to visit the grave should he have a mind to.

I keep Jesse’s story close to my heart. He had had no intention to be a parent, but became one at the end of his life. He’s my example of one of the “best dads” in the world.

Peace