The Deathly Finger of HIV/ AIDS Still Looms Among Black Youth

It was the summer of 1987…

I was a rising junior at Vanderbilt University. I was taking a Sociology course and needed a topic for a research paper. I wanted to write a paper about a topic regarding African Americans. So, I went to the Director of Vanderbilt’s Black Cultural Center for ideas. He told me about this epidemic, AIDS, and how it was ravaging the black community. I had never heard of it…and, it was decimating the black community? As I read and heard more about this disease, I became more intrigued…and, frankly, a little frightened.

In the late 1980s, the disease had two ugly heads in two different ethnic communities. In the White community, it was primarily a gay, male disease. In the black community, it was being transmitted through intravenous drug use, through sex with IV drug users and through the birth canal. The late 1980s statistics revealed the disease’s havoc on the black community. If my memory serves me well, the headlines were:

• 25% of men with AIDS were black
• 51% of women with AIDS were black
• 70% of children with AIDS were black.
  

After completing my research paper that summer, I remember sitting in the cafeteria with some guys. As typical, testosterone-laced teenage males do, we were in the midst of conversation about young ladies who were held captive by our wit, intelligence, fine apparel and ripped physiques. One of the guys began to discuss a young lady who was under his spell…and the lengths she would go to please him. Suddenly, the conversation stopped being funny…for me. I began to think about this the epidemic killing the black community that few people knew about…even these “brothas” with their exceptionally high SAT scores. And, they were now putting themselves at risk!

Later that year, the Director and I did a couple of seminars at black churches on AIDS. I vividly remember the queasiness of “church folks” as the transmission of the disease was explained. Being one of those “church-folks” too, I felt badly for them and for me. After one of those seminars, the Director concluded his presentation with a statement I have never forgotten.

“In ten years, everyone will know someone who is HIV positive.”

Then, I thought it was a bold, statistically-driven conjecture. On one hand, I thought the statement was pretty cool. I thought I was in the midst of science in the making. In fact, I thought, “Someday, I want to be smart enough and have the credentials to make bold predictions such as this.” At the same time, I wanted him to be wrong…dead wrong! This disease, in its current trajectory, would significantly change the sexual relationships of the next generation of black teens. I was scared for me and for those who followed after me.

It was sometime in 1990…

I took a weekend trip from Nashville, Tennessee to Memphis to visit my two older brothers. Chris, my oldest brother, was 18 years my elder. Nick, my other brother, was approximately 18 months my elder. Nick and I grew up in close quarters with one another. We fought. We collected sport cards. We argued. We played basketball, football, baseball and ran track together. As tots, we flocked to Chris’s bedroom to listen to his to his stereo, were amazed by his album collection, and recklessly tried to dance to his 70s Soul music. Given his age, Chris soon moved out of the family home, and eventually made his home in Memphis. He came home for holidays and special events. Whenever Chris came home, it was like Christmas to us. We wanted to stay up until he arrived…and probably asked my Mom endlessly for the time of his arrival. We loved him dearly.

By the time of my trip to Memphis, Chris, a bachelor, was developing a business in property management; he and Nick lived in one of the houses he owned. For me, it was a rare opportunity to catch up with both of them. Sometime during the weekend, I ran an errand with Chris. As I was riding in the car with him, he suddenly shifted the conversation.

“Carter, you know that I’m gay.”

Quite frankly, I wasn’t too shocked by this statement. Being an attractive-looking man, many older women would ask if he were married yet. When I said, “No,” they would give me a perplexed look then drop the conversation. As Nick and I grew older, we somewhat suspected it; however, we never discussed it. Regardless, his confirmation of our suspicion still jolted me; however, his next statement took me completely by surprise.

“And, I’m HIV positive.”

What?!?!?! He might have told me how he got the disease or when, but I don’t remember hearing it. I knew how, but, I surely didn’t want to know the details of his acquisition of the disease. I was and still am one of those “church-folks.” The jolt and vivid memory of this conversation was not his admission of being HIV positive, but knowing that this admission represented a death sentence to him. How do you wrap your head around the fact that your "big" brother is going to die?

It’s now three years later. 1993.

Chris had been faithfully battling the complications of his HIV infections. Since I lived in another city, the disease had an abstract face…a series of brief illnesses… numerous medications…and physical strength that vacillated from high to low. To be honest, I really didn’t know how to handle being near him. So many myths about the disease abounded. Remaining distant…keeping it abstract was a safe response for an immature person. But, the abstractness would soon be crushed by the stark reality of the disease.

Later that year, I took a weekend trip with my Mom to Memphis. It was during this trip that I saw the brutal face of AIDS…up close and personally. Whatever distance and abstractness I wanted to maintain was forcibly removed. When we got to Chris’s house, he had not eaten in the past 24 hours. He seemed weak and listless. He spoke slowly, seeming to expend considerable energy with each thought that preceded each spoken word. Wanting a hamburger, Chris and I got in the car and drove to a nearby McDonald’s restaurant. I bought him lunch, and watched him slowly try to consume his food. Being too tired to finish, he took most of the food back to his house. Trips to Mickey D’s haven’t provided me many life-long, vivid recollections, but, the painful weakness of my brother’s struggle to consume his lunch will never leave my memory.

Later that afternoon, I took him to what I thought was a clinic. Instead, it was a section of a Memphis hospital that focused on treating HIV/ AIDS patients. I can still feel the stillness of depression hovering above me as I walked into the facility. As we walked down the hallway, I noticed that all of the patients were so young…some appeared not much older than me. Black. White. Male. Female. They all seemed frail and weak. And, the silence on the hallway was deafening. I don’t remember anyone talking. Just random coughing…hoarse, raspy coughing…ones that hurt as they leave your lungs and scratch the tender lining of your throat as they pass by and exit your mouth…And, the rapid, patter of shoes tapping quickly across the floor as if an extended stay in the hallway was a health hazard.

After a long wait, we finally saw his physician. Chris sunk into a chair and introduced me to his doctor. Then, the doctor proceeded to review Chris’s cocktail of twenty-one or so prescriptions. I remember thinking to myself:

"How, in God’s name, can he possibly remember to take all of these pills at the proper time? Is this medical treatment or trial-by-fire?!?!?!"

As the doctor proceeded to ask Chris questions, Chris tried to answer, but he was drained of energy. He was so tired. So, I took charge. Frankly, I was just a little pissed off. On one hand, I felt like he was getting adequate care; but, I felt it lacked the compassion that one can only feel when it is someone close to you. Given his condition, I pressed to have him admitted into the hospital that afternoon. I remember the look on Chris’s face when he was settled into his hospital room. From the comfort of soft bed, he gave me a faint smile…and a sigh of peacefulness. He was the older brother…almost 18 years older than me. But, I was now caring for him.

While he was finally getting some rest, I was still racked inside. As soon as he was settled, I ran for the door…I couldn’t take any more. In my heart, I knew the end was near; but I couldn’t bring myself to admit it.

Chris courageously held on for another year. When he became unable to care for himself, my Mom moved Chris back home to Jackson, Tennessee. In those final months, I don’t remember if I saw Chris alive; I don’t know if I could have handled it. He was in intense pain. And, there were more medicines to manage this pain. It was during these times that I struggled between prayers for a miraculous healing and a quick exit. Although I wanted a miracle, I knew that he would never be the same; we humans seem able to sustain the functioning of individual organs longer than we can retain the spirit of the person we knew and loved. It was at this point that I begrudgingly wished him a peaceful eternal rest and the presence of his Maker. Gracefully relieved of his intense pain, Chris died in August, 1994.

A year or so after the death of my brother, I engaged in a conversation with a colleague about the AIDS crisis. I had some strange perception that this subject could become “academic” again. As this colleague and I relayed our understandings of the impact of the disease, our conversation became increasingly loud. Unaware of my brother, the person suddenly proclaimed in so many words, “Gay folks are getting what they deserve!” This person might as well have pummeled me on the head with a bat. I was hurt to the core. The wound of Chris’s death was still fresh and barely healed. I guess this subject will never again be “academic” for me.

Since the death of my brother in 1994, AIDS has continued to ravage the black community. Infection rates continue to rise, but the life spans for those with good health care plans have been extended. In the late 1980s, black men died within a couple of years of the diagnosis (predominantly because of the lack of preventative health care and delays in diagnosis). Today, those who maintain healthy diets, can afford the newest medications and make regular doctor visits, can live longer lives being HIV positive.

As we celebrated the 2009 National African American AIDS Awareness Day in early February, the statistics for black folks are worse than when I began tracking the disease over 20 years ago. The CDC reports:

• 49% of the Americans diagnosed with HIV/AIDS are black folks.
• 63% of children (under the age of 13 years) diagnosed with HIV/AIDS are black children.
• 41% of all men living with the disease are black males.
• 64% of all women living with the disease are black women.
  

For black men, the most common means of acquiring the disease is (in rank order):

• Having unprotected sex with another man who is HIV positive
• Sharing needles and syringes with someone who is HIV positive
• Having unprotected sex with a woman who is HIV positive
  

For black women, the most common means of HIV acquisition is:

• Having unprotected sex with a man who has HIV
• Sharing needles and syringes with some who has HIV
  

For black folks, as a whole, HIV/AIDS strikes with greater frequency, kills a higher percentage of blacks and does it in a shorter time frame than any other ethnic group in America.

Regarding youth, the CDC’s 2008 report on HIV/AIDS among Youth cites that black youth and young adults, 13-24 years old, were disproportionately affected by HIV infection. Our youth accounted for 55% of youth HIV infections. Similarly, the CDC’s latest national Youth Risk Behavioral Survey (YRBS) reported that black teenagers (in the 9th-12th grades) were more likely than White or Hispanic teens to:

• Have ever had sexual intercourse,
• Be currently sexually active
• Have had sexual intercourse for the first time before the age of 13
• Have had sexual intercourse with four or more persons
  

So, where do we go from here? How will we prevent the rapid infection of the next cohort of black teens? Another generation awaits the same pain that I have endured. Although I am short on solutions, I know that it will take more than “church-folks” exclaiming the sinfulness of homosexuality; however, the answer doesn’t necessarily lie with a miraculous cure. We must do more to educate black youth about the disease; moreover, we must also commit to changing behaviors that place us at risk for acquiring it. The acquisition of HIV/AIDS is directly linked to certain high-risk behaviors (See the CDC’s list above). It doesn’t just happen to you. Regardless of your lifestyle or belief structures, if one abstains from these high-risk behaviors, your risk for catching HIV/AIDS is fairly low.

In the end, those who acquire HIV/AIDS deserve our love and support. Whether they were raped in prison, had a homosexual relationship, injected themselves with an infected syringe or slept with a man or woman inflected with HIV, we are all Samaritans on the Jericho Road. Though doing so may seem to be dangerous and an intrusion on our time, we should go to them, “take them to an inn and take care of them.” Today, black youth who contract the disease have the possibility of living a longer life than my brother, Chris. Regardless of our fears, these young brothers and sisters should not be forced to live or die alone. Each one of them is a "Chris"—someone’s brother, sister, son or daughter. And, somebody, like me, is crying inside for them.

The Innocence of Children...The Rage for their Fallen Souls

(This essay was originally written in 1992 shortly after the death of my father. It appeared in its original form as an essay for a local newspaper. It was revised in 1998 after the birth of my first child.)

The beauty of children is their innocence—their naivete to the evils and scourges of society. The fondest memory of my childhood is the security I felt with my father’s presence. He was bigger than life. Though five feet eight inches tall, approximately one hundred ninety pounds, his personality was maybe two or three times that size. And that presence—that strength—comforted me. I would sit up with him late in the night, reading my picture books as he read his more technical manuscripts. Then, as I got sleepy, I would move to his lap. Sitting in his lap, Daddy sang to me:

Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out to the crowd,
Buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks,
I don’t care if I ever get back!
At it’s root, root, root
For the home team.
If they don’t win, it’s a shame,
Cause it’s One! Two! Three strikes,
You’re out!
At the ole’ ball game….

Something to that effect. The songs would be different each time. Daddy was no Nat King Cole. His voice would crack as he reached a high note and break as he gasped for air. But this was irrelevant. The song was for me. Following each song came a short monologue. Most of it, I did not hear. By then I was drifting off to sleep. But, I was conscious enough to hear his final words, “Daddy loves you,” and feel a warm kiss on my forehead.

In those days, Daddy was “god” to me. He embodied all the protection, knowledge, and discipline that I look upward and inward for today. His words were gospel. Sacred. The truth. Why not? Daddy was everything! And I was Daddy’s little boy. He frequently told me that I would be successful. “You will go to an Ivy League school: Harvard, Yale or Darmouth.” In those days, I had no idea what he was talking about. Where were these places? All I knew was that if Daddy said it, then it must be good. Moreover, it must be the truth! I was destined, driven by a force that I believed was locked inside of me. No one need question me, because I would prevail. Daddy settled that matter long ago.

Daddy created a “monster” in me—an ego, a confidence. One that demanded that I be heard. I felt no barriers to my abilities and skills. I challenged everyone about everything. Frequently, Daddy had politically conservative, white men as guests in his office above our garage. Daddy would always call for me to make a sandwich and soda for him. Yet, after I had completed my task, he never asked me to leave. I was always curious as to their conversations, but I felt that I should leave so they could get to their business. I stayed anyway, acting as if I had some other business in his office. Invariably, these guests would have something “stupid” to say, and out would jump the “monster.” There I was challenging men four, five, six times my age in subjects I knew little about in comparison to them. In all of my remarks, good or bad, Daddy never stopped me—not that I would have heard him. He allowed me to speak my mind and gave me validity through his silence. In retrospect, I think he was proud to see his son challenging white men so vigorously. When I finally left—tired of dogging these white men, he probably politely apologized to them for the interruption. But, I know there was a certain pride for an African American man to see his little, black son challenging—intellectually—the ethic, norms and values of white folks in a small, southern town.

My Daddy is gone now. As an adult, I now know Daddy was human…that I was naïve about his omniscient power and mortality. I sit up late at night thinking of him…My sleep has never been as restful as it was as a child. As long as I could see the faint light of the “television room,” hear the clanking of Daddy’s pipe against the ashtray and theme music to “Kojak” in the background, I felt a sense of protection. I think about how his mere presence eased my fears…How his positive words made me believe in myself.

As I look into the faces of little black boys and girls today, I seek that sparkle of untamed challenge, brilliance and innocent curiosity for understanding. I seek the light of hope, the resiliency to adversity, the capacity for infinite wisdom and for the “savior” of the world.

I think we all look for happiness in the eyes of children. Where else can happiness and agape find refuge—except in their eyes? We also see a reflection of our former selves in those eyes. We remember our lives before our corruption. We long to have that innocence back. We vainly attempt to protect those untainted eyes with all of our strength from their inevitable destruction. Upon the realization that we cannot shield them, we close our own eyes, turn our backs and shout louder in church. We are much too afraid…much too fearful to acknowledge that their sin is our own handy work.

Since my father’s death, I have involuntarily intensified my watchful eye. As Daddy saw hope for change in the idealism of his contentious son, I seek these same attributes in the youth I see. Maybe that is why I was subconsciously drawn to youth development work and teaching. As I walk the streets, malls and church pews, I gaze longingly into the eyes of children. I look for the innate brilliance that hides right beneath their eyelids…their potential greatness…but also our potential exoneration. I seek their refuge because they are my redemption, my hope. We have long ago been lost to the world and its materialistic trappings, evil, greed. Since we are lost in our own realities and agendas, it is in these children that we remain hopeful for all mankind.

Today, even these innocent creatures are lost to the world before they are able to comprehend it. You look into the eyes of a seven year old, and there is no light. No happiness…no sense of hope. They aren’t even children, really. They talk like you do. They walk like you do. They dress like you do. They curse like you. They murder like you do. They reflect your fallen nature, and you become angered.

You call them insolent. But, how can you? They are your reflection.

You can’t really blame them.

Can you?

Who can you blame? Their parents?

Yeah!

Their parents are the morally corrupt ones. Are these so-called parents even raising their kids? Have their fathers deserted them? And their mothers…they allowed those children to do whatever they wanted! If those parents would have….Jesus…a little common sense…kept their pants up…Where are their family values?

Wait…don’t I do those same things? But, I feed and clothe my children. They go to good schools. Look how clean my children are. Look how dirty those children appear.

Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out to the crowd…

On Easter Sunday, in 1998, my first son was born. When he was a baby and couldn’t get to sleep at night, I would find myself singing him that same song. Born with his eyes wide open, eager to start his long voyage, my wife and I named him, Amiri, which means “leader” in Swahili. His sweet smile, his ability to find joy and laughter in the smallest things, and the restfulness of his sleep returned at least some of my hope for our children.

...Buy me some peanuts and crackerjacks,
I don’t care if I never get back…

With the smile of an angel and his small finger stuck between his new and emerging teeth, his tiny body curled to conform to mine. Turning his head, he squirmed to find the right spot on Daddy’s chest. With his arms wrapped around Daddy’s neck, he finally settled on a spot and drifted into peaceful rest.

“You’re going to be a great man one day. You are going to be a doctor or lawyer. I don’t know yet, but, I can see it in your eyes. Whatever it is, Daddy will be there for you.”

...And, it’s root, root, root
For the home team.
If they don’t win, it’s a shame.
Cause it’s One! Two! Three strikes, You’re out!
At the ole’ ballgame!

I lowered my head and kissed the crown of his head. “Daddy loves you.”

Welcome

Welcome to "I-AM Talking 'Bout Black Children," an online discussion regarding the contemporary and historical conditions facing African American children. Once per week, I will post a thought-provoking commentary or analysis regarding educational and social conditions in this country. I welcome your reviews, thoughts and ideas for future posts.

The rules are simple. We are all intellectual leaders. All of our ideas have value and will contribute to the betterment of young people in this country. We should vigorously discuss issues and solutions; we should grapple with the intellectual, creative and moral aspects of our ideas. But, this vigorous discussion should never become personal attacks. It is the ideas under scrutiny, not the person.

Again, I welcome you.