ARNOLD JACKSON
August 25, 1957 -- May 3, 1998
Eulogy
by Yolanda Lollis, Esq.
Please, allow me to tell you of an unfinished
conversation.
The conversation started so slowly.
It started quite by accident. It started in his office at the AIDS
Law Project.
We talked about work and we talked about
politics, we talked about race and we talked about the politics of race.
In the ICU unit, he, unable to talk, wrote notes demanding to be discharged
from the hospital. I could only bathe his feverish brow and say "don't
worry -- you'll get out of here."
He left the AIDS Law Project and the conversation
moved to his kitchen table.
We ate hoagies, watched his kitten try
to get at the caged bird and we talked.
We talked about my work and his new computer
and when he would begin work on his novel. He returned home to visit
his family at the AIDS Law Project over and over and we talked. We
talked about his grandmother.
We talked about the main character in his
novel, Enoch, and about Enoch's grandmother. He introduced me to the other
characters in Enoch's life. I like them I said. In his hospital
room, we ate Mike and Ikes until they were stuck in his teeth and we talked.
We talked of his despair and of my hopes for him. We talked about
baseball. He talked of final wishes and I talked of assurances that
there was more time -- always more time to talk. On the telephone
we talked.
He wondered if God had abandoned
Him. "I understand why you would think that -- I don't believe God
has forgotten you" I said -- "but you should ask God this question yourself."
"Will God mind that I am angry" he asked. "Not at all" I said.
"God can handle your anger."
In the car, driving along, we talked about
our mothers. He said he was worried about his mother. He didn't want
her to be hurt. What would she do when he died? He said
he worried about leaving his friends behind. I said "I know."
Walking along the streets of Philadelphia
we talked about hair -- about him growing a ponytail "No" he said; and
of me growing locks "Maybe" I said. I told him I needed to make some
changes in my life. He told me what he thought my options were and I agreed.
We walked and talked -- he said "you're doing a great job as a mother".
"Thanks" I said. He said "I hope Kent realizes what a lucky man he
is" -- I said "I don't know if he does or not -- why don't you call and
tell him."
We laughed. We spoke of our lovers and
we spoke of our friends. We spoke of him returning to work part-time.
We ate and we talked. In the Cheap Art Cafe, we edited his latest
article. "You have to shorten it" I said. And of course he said "I
won't cut out anything-- they have to accept it like it is." We spoke
of -- if and when the revolution would come; and of what our role
would be if it did come. We spoke of life, we spoke of death
and we spoke of life after death. We spoke of the things he thanked
God for. We spoke of this gathering today. We spoke of
my love for him and we spoke of his love for me. In the emergency
room -- a kiss -- I said "bye sweetie. I'll talk to you later."
But later there was only silence -- the
silence of an unfinished conversation.
There was so much more to talk about.
Manuscripts to discuss and edit over lunch. Publishers to contact.
Booksigning parties to plan. But instead, there is only
painful silence.
In Arnold's novel, there is a scene at
the funeral of Enoch's grandmother, where the minister reads from the book
of Ecclesiastes. I'm sure many of you are familiar with the passage:
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under the
sun. The scripture goes on to say that there is a time to keep silence
and a time to speak. Someday I will come to accept the fact that
my time for speaking with Arnold has passed.
But until then -- in the silence of the
night -- I press rewind and the conversation plays again and again.
Yolanda
Lollis, Esq.
May 9, 1998
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