Dear Uncle Arin:

I SCREWED UP! Bad. And there’s nothing you or nobody else can do to fix it.

I’m in my counselor’s office—the one at school who you always said you liked. I got some news last week that she said I should tell you. That’s why I’m writing this letter. If you read e-mail, I woulda e-mailed you. If you texted like Aunt April, I would texted you. But I couldn’t just call you up on the phone and tell you nothing like this. No way.

First let me say that I’m glad you let me come to live with you. New York is way better than erie. And being in a school for kids like me, who play music and who dance or act or paint, is the best thing that ever happened to me. so thanks.

Uncle Arin, I know you told me to slowdown. I know you said I ain’t have to eat the whole apple at once—but I’m from a small town. we don’t have hardly none of the things they have in New York. even the people are different here. They walk fast. . . . They talk fast. Time even seems to go faster here. so I guess it only makes sense that I got fast, too. when I told my friends back home that I had five girlfriends in three months, they swore I was lying. I was, a little, and you was right when you told me that New York was gonna give me plenty of real stories to tell, so I could quit sending lies home. I see what you mean, now. I got a story none of my friends is gonna believe. I wish it was a lie. I wish it was a dream. But it ain’t.

Remember how I was before I came here? I was a really good student—all B’sand A’s. I stayed in the house all the time’ cause Mom said I wasn’t like the other kids around our way. And I wasn’t. I liked to write poetry, not rap. I loved to read, too.

Like I said, you did me a favor, bringing me to New York. But you messed my life up too. I didn’t drink when I was back in Erie. And I never smoked. I hated the way cigarettes smelled. But here I tasted everything I could, even sushi. even menthol cigarettes. My friends changed, too. I was used to kids in black and white. Then I came here and met kids from everywhere:Vietnam, North Korea, Japan. Nigeria, ethiopia, and Greece. You reminded me that the Islands live here—so it was nothing for me to hang with kids from Barbados and Antigua; to play the steel drums and eat fish with the heads on. They had all kinds of stories. Bet none of theirs can beat mine.

Miss cox is looking over my shoulder, telling me that I’m stalling. she says she’ll dial your number, then put me on the phone, if I like. But I can’t do it that way. You might cuss me out. Or cry, even though you say men don’t do that.

Okay. so here it is. remember when I went out a few months ago? You said for me to be home by twelve. You were on the phone that night with Mom, and she heard you and got pissed. You told her that New York time was different than erie time. That New York city kids were more mature, too. I did not come home until three. I threw up the six beers and the three cranberry vodkas I had drunk. It was our secret, you said, and you promised not to tell Mom or Aunt Carole. And you didn’t. You asked where I had been. I lied when I said I was at Jason’s house and he and I had been skateboarding on Fifth before we went to a party in the Bronx. You kept asking if I hadbeen with a girl. I lied and said no. My head hurt. I just wanted to shower and go to sleep. something kept saying, Tell him. Uncle Arin’s cool. He’ll understand. But I was scared. so I just kept things to myself.

You know, I think you had a premonition,’cause the next day you asked me again, remember? “was you with a girl? Did you do like I said?” I said no, but the rest of that day I stayed away from you. I figured you’d be able to tell after a while that I had been lying, kind of. I mean, I was with a girl. But I ain’t do what you said I should—protect myself. we were just having fun. Drinking. Kissing. You know. And I thought about it for a minute—I mean, they tell you in school to be safe. They tell you on television to stop, think, and take care of your business. wrap up. But when you are right there at that moment having a good time, you forget stuff. Or you just don’t care what happens because you figure it won’t happen to you nohow.

Uncle Arin, I’m scared. I wouldn’t say that to nobody else in the world but you,’cause other guys would say I’m weak. I already get called that and worse for writing poetry and playing the violin. But when she called me and told me she was positive and I should get tested too, my heart beat so hard I thought it was gonna bust out my body. It was crazy how she told me. real calm, you know. she said she was just going to take some pills and get on with her life. Only you take those forever, I know, because they talk about it in school. And if you don’t have the money, then what? You ain’t rich, us neither. so what do that mean? I don’t get any pills to treat my HIV?

They say I’ll have the virus forever. That I could maybe even get full-blown AIDS. I went online. I read about it. I saw the pictures. people live longer than before, but . . . I don’t want this. I want to hurt her; knock her out. I asked her why was she sleeping around without protecting herself. she asked me why I was.

Miss cox asked if I knew who gave it to whom. At first I ain’t know what she was talking about. “Did you ask the other girls you were with if they had other partners?” It took two hours before I told Miss cox the truth. That girl wasn’t my first. And wrapping up wasn’t my style—before, anyhow. Maybe I started it, she said. Or maybe I passed it along. she said that I had a duty to let each girl know that I was infected, otherwise I might as well put a bullet to their heads and shoot, because I was killing them just the same.

Miss cox says for me to calm down. To talk to my parents and do what the doctors say and maybe everything will be like it was before. But it won’t. I got a premonition, too. I think I’ll get AIDs. she says I’m just upset, worried about things. But when I was little and my brother got the chickenpox, I got them double bad. when he got a cold, I got pneumonia—twice. It’s always been different for me. My body never could fight off things the way other people’s could. But you always said not to worry. That I was smarter, had more talent, that I would be the one to put my parents in a mansion one day. I screwed that up, didn’t I?

Please don’t call me after you read this. please don’t stop me in the hall or the kitchen and bring it up. I do not want to discuss it. And I ain’t ready to tell my parents, so please keep it to yourself. I’m begging you. what’s it matter anyhow? what’s done is done. If I had to do it again, I’d do different: wrap up, or just forget about doing anything at all, ever.

I know I never say it, but I love you.And I’m sorry. really, really sorry.

Yours truly,
La’ron

* * *

Dear La’Ron:

First off let me say this: I love you and there’s nothing you and our family can’t get through together. HIV don’t have to be no death sentence, but it sure won’t be no picnic for you, either. You were thirteen when you came here from Erie two years ago. Just a boy. I guess you’ll turn into a man lickety-split now. Sorry ’bout that. Being grown ain’t as much fun as kids think.

I’m writing you back, La’Ron, because I showed your aunt the letter you left for me. She said I needed to respect your wishes and give you some space, at least for a day or so. Y ’all both out your minds, that’s what I thought at first. Then I realized I needed a few days for me too. You got HIV on my watch. So I got some explaining to do myself.

Your aunt asked if I ever had that talk with you. You know, the one about sex. I asked her if she was nuts. Of course I did. Remember that day? It was that same week you came to live with us. She looked at me like I had two heads when I said that. “You only talked to him once? That’s it?” My father only talked to me once, for five minutes. “Use these,” he said, handing a box of condoms to me. I didn’t even know what they were. I always thought he didn’t handle that thing right. I ain’t do any better with you, I see. “Wrap up, wear a raincoat,”—those were my exact words. I been asking myself all day long, was I out my mind giving you that kind of advice in this day and age? I ain’t sixty. I’m only fifty. I shoulda known better. But the truth is, I was never good at talking about things like that, even with my own son. I guess I got lucky with Arthur. Twenty-five and no babies. I shoulda had him talk to you.

I wouldn’t tell your aunt, but I liked you having all those girlfriends. A boy who plays the violin and writes poetry got to do something to let the world know he’s “all male.” And you’re so smart, everybody knows that. So I just thought you’d know what to do.

AIDS. HIV. How could someone in my family have that? Gay people get that. That’s what I always thought. Drug addicts, too. Your aunt’s been pulling things off the Internet all day, showing me articles about black people and young people and AIDS. Man, she even showed me how people our age are getting it too. I do not want to talk about this. I want it to go away. And you—one minute I’m crying over you having it, the next minute I’m mad enough to put you on a train and ship you out of town. HIV in my house?! That wasn’t never supposed to happen. You shouldn’t have nothing like that. You’re young. Got your whole life in front of you.

Why you? Why us? We’re not bad people. We don’t do nothing illegal. I try to go to church every once in a while. I don’t lie. Don’t cheat. Now this happens. What the neighbors gonna say, huh? How’s your aunt gonna usher in church now? We did not deserve this! We were good to you.

I’ve written and rewritten this letter three times now. I want to say the right things. But I can’t lie. I’m feeling too many things to get this letter right. I’m blaming me and blaming you, and blaming your parents for sending you up here. And you know what, that girl’s parents shoulda kept a better eye on her, too. A young girl ought to have herself at home, not out someplace getting laid. You all are all too young to be having sex anyhow. This mess is proof of that.

La’Ron. What we gonna do, boy? How we gonna fix this? It’s not like that bike I bought you and put together. There’s medicine and doctors. Blood tests and counselors. Gossip and hurt feelings. And days when you gonna be sick and tired of all of it. If I said I wasn’t scared for you I’d be lying. But your aunt keeps on saying we can do this. So I guess we can; we have to, huh?

So now that I’ve told you off, let me apologize for letting you down; for sending you out there with nothing but a few words on how to protect yourself, knowing full well that ten dictionaries don’t got enough words on how to help a young boy figure out this thing between him, girls, and his hormones. But what’s done is done. Now what?

Let me say this: you done the right thing by telling us you’re HIV positive. Your aunt’s right. That’s probably the hardest thing you ever had to do. You coulda hid this from us. You coulda pretended nothing was wrong, and kept having a good time with those girls. But a man takes responsibility for himself, and other people too. I’m hurt, but I’m proud. Now we all got to get busy taking care of you.

Your aunt and I came up with a plan. We gonna ask your parents if you can still live here with us, if that’s okay with you. We got the best hospitals in the country right here in New York City. There are all kinds of programs for people with HIV and AIDS. You know your aunt— been driving me nuts with all the ways we can get you some help. She even found support groups for kids your age. That’s good. But it seems wrong—I mean, fourteen and sixteen-year-olds needing something like that.

La’Ron, I do not want to tell your parents that you have HIV. It’s gonna break their hearts. But it’s man-up time for both of us, I guess. Thursday your folks are coming here by train. They don’t know why, but they know it has to do with you. Some things shouldn’t be said over the phone, I think.

Your aunt and I scheduled you an appointment with our doctor and arranged for someone from an AIDS group to sit and meet with all of us. I’m hoping your parents are alright with that. If they’re not, I guess they’ll be taking you home.

Either way, I got to get up to speed on all this. We all do. Did I tell you there’s a hotline? You can call anytime you want to ask questions and talk. Your aunt says she and me can call too; go to a support group even. I don’t know. Sitting ’round telling strangers my business ain’t me. But who knows. Everything’s different now.

La’Ron, I’ll be honest, the one thing that keeps me up at night besides you and your situation are those girls you mentioned in your letter. One minute I’m saying they just triflin’. Then I’m thinking they somebody’s daughters. I think about them: infected. Teenagers taking medicine for life. Girls that trusted you. That you trusted, maybe. If my baby girl walked into the house and told me she had HIV or AIDS—I swear, I’d wanna kill the dude responsible. Your aunt says it’s too early, but I just believe you need to contact them one by one, once you get your head on straight. I know the county’s doing that, now that you’ve passed on their information. But I’m thinking that maybe you need to do it too. It’s just a thought. A way to own your part in this; not just walk away from what you did to other people, or what they might have did to you.

You a good boy, La’Ron. You can still do the things in life that you planned. But you right, your life won’t never be the same. You will get sick sometimes. Maybe end up in the hospital, too. And you’re gonna kick yourself more times than you can count. But we’re gonna get through this. Together. Like family. And who knows, maybe you will talk to the kids at school or church after a while. They need to know that what happened to you can happen to them too if they ain’t smart.

Well, you did it. You told us. Now it’s up to us to take the next step. Like I said when I started this letter, this disease don’t have to be no death sentence. There’s medicine. There’s help. There’s us, here for you every step of the way. And there’s you, a smart boy who made a big mistake and now is going to make the best life possible.

Soon the sun is gonna be up. I got to finish this letter and go back to bed. I probably won’t be able to sleep, though. I still got a lot on my mind. Just like you, I figure.

Love always,
Uncle Arin