All good reviews give us great feelings. When fantastic author Uvi Poznansky reviews with such accolades it is a magical feeling. Deeply honored and humbled.
The Bridge of Deaths reads like something far beyond fiction: it reads like a mission of discovery, a search for truth propelled by the author’s passion and curiosity, trying to piece together stories she heard in all the way back in her childhood about her grandfather, who was one of five casualties in a mysterious aircraft crash.
The research that M.C.V Egan wove into this book is astounding in depth and breadth, beyond the usual amount of work usually done by other historical fiction writers. The mystery is wrapped in psychic aspects of the possibility of reincarnation and in romance that is all the more enjoyable because of the contrasts between Bill and Maggie, opposites attracted to each other. They set out to learn about the crash with the help of Catalina, a character who obviously represents the author herself in her drive to resolve conflicts between different accounts of history, different version of truth, and conflicting snippets of evidence:
“She held up a photograph for them to see of two men walking in a snowfall across a bridge somewhere in New York City. They were her two grandfathers, the one she never knew, who died in cold Danish waters, and the one she wasn’t related to by blood, but certainly by bond of great childhood memories…”
Casting Lots is the tale of how a Greek slave, Lucinius, becomes an influential religious leader and literary figure in the First Century A.D. His spiritual awakening is prompted by an unlikely mentor, a Centurion, who was at the crucifixion.
Lucinius is ordered by his master to assemble the stories told by eye-witnesses to the life and death of Jesus Christ. Cornelius was the Centurion at the Crucifixion. Cornelius is hated by the Jews and the Romans. He is haunted by the Crucifixion because he won the shroud worn by Christ in a game of dice. He takes Lucinius on a journey throughout the Empire and tells him what seem to be fantastic stories about famous Romans during the era of the Republic, some 100 years ago. These stories contain elements which Cornelius could not possibly know, unless he is making them up or unless there is some other explanation.
The book answers the question of who wrote the Gospel of Luke and why he wrote it. The book answers the question of who is Cornelius and why he said Jesus was an innocent man at his Crucifixion. Thus, it is a tale of the two men's spiritual journeys.
Excerpt
I walked to his home again. The streets were crowded and the world’s smells washed over me: the sweat of the men, the perfumes of the women, the urine of the animals, bread baking, cloth just cut, fruit drying on the stands, gutters of the streets, leather being tanned. Sweet, pungent, acrid, acidic, salty, bitter, biting smells grabbed my nostrils as if I smelled these for the first time. The smells were counterpoint to the sounds of the city. The hammer of the artist cracking tiles, rocks, and glass to make mosaics, bleating of sheep and lowing of cows as they awaited slaughter, the rumble of wagons carrying bolts of cloth, or carcasses of meat and exotic goods along the cobblestone streets, the tramp of soldiers’ caligae, their hob-nails clicking on stone, as they marched, crying babies needing to be nursed, yelling mothers trying to find lost children, heralds blaring out the whereabouts of some legion killing some barbarians somewhere on some frontier, tax collectors demanding payment of tax, while the taxpayer screamed insults or begged for mercy, and the sound of my heart pounding so hard that it might burst, blended together in a discordant cacophony of life. If the smells did not grab your attention, or if the sounds did not demand your notice, then the play of light would surely command your consideration. The light side-by-side with the dark was sharp, stark, defined, and distinct, as where the land ends and the seas begin. You walked most of the time in the shadow of the tall insulae, the apartment buildings, fearing that from the darkness above would flow that most unsavory of liquids. Then the sunlight blaring from a blue crystal-clear sky dazzled your eyes, when you walked across some broad street. The brilliant sun radiated off the temples’ gold-leaf veneers. You were in the presence of the Gods. All the while, I thought about how I could approach him. An offer of money, I thought, would only insult and repel him. The quest of my master disgusted and dismayed him. Before I had decided what to do and how to do it, I was there at his door. “Damno ad averno!” (“Damn it to hell!”) Cornelius spat as spoke these words as if the spitting added to the curse. “I will wait until you tell me.” I stood resolutely. “What?” “I will wait until you tell me.” I sat down and smiled slightly. “Get underfoot, eh?” “If necessary.” “All day and all night?” he asked. “If necessary.” He turned into the darkness of his home. I waited. Time passed. Then I saw him coming back, his vitis rudis, that is his vine hand. No true centurion was ever without the symbol of his authority, his vitis rudis, gnarled and worn. “Do you think a man who has wielded this,” he gestured with his vitis rudis, “will ever break?” “Do you think that a slave who has been beaten all of his life will fear one more beating?” “Well, that is the first thing you have said that makes any sense at all!” He smiled.
.
William D. McEachern is a graduate of Duke University with a bachelor of arts in religion and psychology. His focus at Duke was on early Christianity. His fascination with Rome grew out of his Latin and Greek classes at St. Paul's School in New York in the early 1960s. Reading Caesar fueled his love of Rome and ancient history, which he has studied for half a century. A practicing tax attorney for more than thirty-five years, he has written numerous articles and several law treatises about estate planning, estate and gift taxation, and the use of trusts. In this his first novel, Mr. McEachern's unique voice blends law, religion, and history.
At the brink of WW II, a British plane crashed and sunk in Danish waters; five deaths were reported: An English Member of Parliament, two Standard Oil of New Jersey executives, a German Corporate Lawyer, and a crew member. An extensive twenty years search through conventional and unconventional resources weaves a fictional narrative with historical data to reveal all five men were far more than they appeared to be. www.thebridgeofdeaths.com
My novel, A Decent Woman, set in turn of the
nineteenth century Puerto Rico, begins in turbulent 1900—two years after the United
States invasion on the shores of Guanica, Puerto Rico and a year after the San
Ciriaco hurricane devastated the Caribbean island.
Brief synopsis of A Decent Woman:
Ponce, Puerto Rico: A Decent Woman is
the story of Ana Belén, a black Cuban born into slavery, who despite hiding a
tempestuous past, becomes a proud midwife in La Playa de Ponce, Puerto Rico,
where she meets sixteen-year old Serafina. After the widowed Serafina marries into a
prominent Ponce family, a crime against Serafina will forever bond her to Ana
in an ill-conceived plan to avoid a scandal and preserve Serafina’s honor and
her new marriage.
Set against the combustive backdrop
of a chauvinistic society where women are treated as possessions, A Decent
Woman is the provocative story of two women as they battle for their dignity
and for love against the pain of betrayal and social change.
At the
beginning of the second decade of U.S. rule in Puerto Rico, after the invasion
of the island in 1898, women of differing social classes began demanding the
right to vote and black Puerto Ricans protested against racism and repression
across the island. In 1917, the United States entered World War I and ‘granted’
Puerto
Ricans citizenship with the Jones Act and Puerto Rican men entered the conflict
in Europe. English was decreed the official language on an island with a
majority of native Spanish speakers.
Gripped in
an economic crisis, thousands of Puerto Ricans fled to the United States in
search of work, and on the island, thousands fled the mountains to the coastal
towns in search of work. A seamstress in a Puerto Rican sweatshop could earn
one dollar a day while the same work done at home earned her a few cents a
day.Between planting and harvest times
of coffee and sugarcane, farmers and laborers were laid off without a salary;
many died of hunger and disease. By 1917, women had joined the workforce as
tobacco strippers, hatmakers, seamstresses, coffee shellers, laundresses, and
embroiderers, and soon demanded fair treatment, higher wages, and protection
against managerial sexual and physical abuse.
“Petitions from people
begging for work or the funds to emigrate flooded the governor’s office. Many
Puerto Ricans faced starvation, especially in the countryside. Suicides of
working people were reported daily in Ponce newspapers.”
“A year later, ten thousand Puerto
Rican laborers held the First Congress of Women Workers, where in addition to
the aforementioned, they evoked the rights of every women and her family to
have ‘a comfortable and healthy home’, insisted on the implementation of
universal women’s suffrage, and called for a special session of the legislature
to address the women’s concerns.” Imposing Decency: The Politics of Sexuality
and Race in Puerto Rico, 1970-1920 by Eileen Findlay.
Ponce,
Puerto Rico, my home town, was the birthplace of the first organization of
feminist activism, La Liga Femínea,
and became an important center for feminists. After Prohibition began, upper
and middle class Puerto Rican women began focusing on themes of decency and
indecency in their communities by forming moral reform projects, such as the
protection of children of working class mothers. Society women with new public roles began
defining motherhood and familial relations of Puerto Ricans, and during this
time, many children were taken away from their mothers and raised by “proper families”.
The society women, white women, early feminists, believed that with proper
education and guidance, their black and mulatto working sisters could be
reformed and turned into proper women of society. Of course, the feminists
would decide when and if that happened.
Middle class
and upper class women then joined forces with the Protestant clergy and when
the government prohibited the making and sale of alcohol, prostitution was also
outlawed. These were lean times for women who were finding it difficult to
feed, house, and clothe themselves and their children; yet, the United States
Army encouraged the women entering the training camps on the island to
entertain the soldiers, and still, Puerto Rican men slept with women other than
their wives, playing woman against the other woman.
The early
feminists were not dissuaded and the second anti-prostitution campaign began
with the arrests of women suspected of prostitution, and the arrests of couples
for living together without a marriage license. Jails and prisons were built to
house the “wayward” women in an attempt to clean up the streets, combat
venereal disease, and help preserve “la sagrada familia.”
On October
11, 1918, an earthquake occurred, with an approximate magnitude of 7.5 on the
Richter scale, which was accompanied by a tsunami, which reached 19.5 feet
high. Like Hurricane San Ciriaco, again the island suffered with death,
devastation, and chaos. The tremors continued for several weeks.
Excerpt:
CHAPTER 21
La Cárcel de Mujeres ~ The Women’s Jail
The morning
after the Worker’s Ball, Ana and Emilia found María’s bed hadn’t been slept in,
and none of the neighbors had seen their friend. Ana didn’t relish setting foot
in the police station, and hoped the Chief of Police she’d met was on duty, not
Officer Pérez. When the women arrived at the jail, they were directed to a
young man in uniform, who didn’t look old enough to shave. Ana pulled Emilia
aside. “Let me do the talking, Emilia. Please, say nothing.” They approached
the desk. “I’m looking for María Santiago. She would have been brought here
last night.”
The young
man scrolled down a list of names. “M. Santiago. She was taken to the new
women’s jail on the outskirts of town—the one they finished before the Fiestas.
Good thing, too; we’re at full capacity here.”
“If you would
kindly give us the directions, we will be on our way,” Ana said, sneaking a
sideways glance at Emilia, who was trying to read the list from where she
stood. Ana wondered who else might have been taken by the police the previous
evening. The young man drew a crude map of the new facility, and handed it to
Ana. “Thank you. We’d best be on our way,” she said. As the women turned to
leave, the man blew Emilia a kiss, which Emilia ignored.
“Pig,” she
said when they were outside. “Makes me want to quit and go straight.”
“Then why
don’t you?” said Ana, in an irritated tone. “Get out of the business, Emilia.
Nothing good can come from selling yourself.”
“I need the
money, but as soon as I save up enough, I’m out.”
“Just don’t
wait too long, my friend. You and María deserve a better life.”
“I don’t
know what we deserve anymore, but I think we’re getting what we deserve now.”
The new
women’s jail was an imposing, single-story, cement box with bars covering
narrow windows. Inside a high fence, women walked in a circle as guards
patrolled the perimeter. Ana and Emilia approached the fence, hoping to see
María.
“I don’t see
her,” said Emilia, craning her neck for a better view.
“Me neither.
I’ve never been to a jail before, have you?”
“I was
arrested once for propositioning a gentleman but only spent the night in the
town hall jail. This here is serious business.”
Emilia
approached a young woman smoking a cigarette, and Ana followed. “Nena, do you know a María? María
Santiago. She was brought in last night.”
The woman behind
the fence countered, “Do you have a cigarette?”
Emilia
offered a cigarette through the fence but didn’t let it go when the young woman
reached for it. “I’ll give it to you for information.”
“Yeah, we
met last night, but I haven’t seen her today. Maybe she’s in the clinic; check
with the guard over there,” she said, pointing to a guard shack at the end of
the fence. Emilia let go of the cigarette.
“The clinic?
Oh my God, Ana, let’s go.” They asked a female guard about María, and were told
she was being held for further testing. “Testing for what?” asked Emilia.
“Are you
family?” asked the guard, eyeing them up and down.
“No, we’re
close friends of Miss Santiago,” Ana said, offering the woman a few coins as a
bribe.
“Well, if
your friend is found to have a venereal disease, she’ll probably be transferred
to another clinic. They don’t allow visitors there,” the woman said in a dry
voice. Out of nowhere Emilia began to cry, which surprised Ana. Emilia’s crying
grew louder until the woman whispered, “Listen, I’m not supposed to give you
any information, but your friend is being evaluated in the clinic—the building
in back. My friend is working that shift. You can’t miss her; her thick
spectacles make her eyes look enormous. Tell her Alicia sent you. She’ll let
you in for a quick visit if your friend is still there.”
“Thank you,”
said Emilia, drying her eyes. Ana and Emilia raced to the door marked “Clinic.”
“By the way,
I know you and María are close, but what was that all about?”
Emilia
grinned, “We got in, didn’t we?” Emilia knocked sharply on the door, and a
woman who fit the guard’s description opened it. Ana spoke first. “Alicia sent
us. We’re looking for our friend, María Santiago.”
“Alicia.”
The woman snorted. “That figures. She’s got a soft heart, that one. Who are you
looking for?”
“María
Santiago. Is she here?”
“Yes, she’s
here. She’s in examination room number one; follow me. I have to warn you,
though. Your friend was pretty drunk and mouthy when she was brought to the
jail. Pérez and his crony got a little rough with her when she didn’t
cooperate.”
Ana’s heart
froze. “What did they do to her?” asked Emilia, a little louder than Ana had
hoped.
The woman
answered tersely, “If she was doing something illegal, then it’s her own fault
she’s in here. That’s the way it goes.”
Ana squeezed
Emilia’s arm, knowing her temper. “Please let us see our friend. We all make
mistakes,” Ana said, not wanting to antagonize the young woman in any way, but
feeling Emilia’s urgency, as well. “We don’t have much time.”
“Follow me,
but make it quick. Officer Pérez is making his rounds.” Fear gripped Ana when
she heard the name and she prayed they wouldn’t run into the man. When the
guard opened the door of the examination room, they saw a woman lying on a low
bed, facing the wall. Ana immediately recognized the dress María had worn the
night before. She and Emilia approached the cot. “They’ve tested your friend
for syphilis; they do that to all the women.”
“María,
María?” Emilia whispered, tapping the woman’s arm. María sprang to a sitting
position, with deep fear in her eyes, and hugged her knees. Ana was startled by
what she saw. María’s dress hung off her left shoulder and was missing several
buttons. Her hair, usually worn pulled back, was wild and loose, and her
make-up was smeared.
“It’s us;
Ana and Emilia! What have they done to you?”
The guard
kept watch at the door, looking down the hallway in both directions, “Hurry!”
“Ay bendito, María. We’re here,” Emilia said, sitting on the cot. María started
to cry, and allowed Emilia to put her arm around her.
María’s eyes
suddenly grew large. “Get me out of here, please.”
Ana knew the
medical staff wouldn’t allow them to take María home until the test results
came back. She had to distract María. “What happened to you, nena?” As the question came out of Ana’s
mouth, she realized she didn’t want to know.
María
composed herself enough to speak. “I honestly don’t remember what happened. I
was drunk and tired, and they let me sleep it off. Then I was in here, and
examined by a devil with dirty instruments that I’m sure he doesn’t use on
decent women. I was so humiliated,” María sobbed.
“Was he a
doctor?” María nodded. At that moment, Ana wanted the gods to send peace to
María, and much suffering to whoever hurt her.
As if
reading Ana’s mind, Emilia hissed, “This man should be made to watch his women
suffer.”
“Are you
taking me home?” asked María in a childlike voice. “Can I go now? Is that why
you’re here, to take me home?”
Ana and
Emilia looked at each other. Ana was uncertain of what to tell her, and it was
Emilia who spoke up. “María, they’ve tested you for syphilis.”
María’s
voice became shrill. “But, I don’t have that! You know me, Emilia. Tell them
I’m clean; I want to go home! Ana, you tell them.”
“María,
listen,” said Ana, taking her by the shoulders. “We’ll find the doctor. You
stay here and stay calm, all right?”
“Ana’s
right; we have to find the doctor.”
“Okay, I’ll
rest. I’m so tired.” María lay down facing the wall, and closed her eyes. Ana
found it incredibly difficult to leave the cell when the female guard urged
them to hurry.
“Béstias,” hissed Emilia as they followed
the guard down a narrow corridor. “We have to get her out of here. She won’t
make it in this place with these beasts.”
“I know, I
know, Emilia. Please be polite with the doctor for María’s sake!” When the
guard opened a door, Pérez was sitting at a desk, reading a newspaper.
“Shit,”
murmured Emilia, “Now what do we do?” Ana watched the guard slink out of the
room without saying a word.
Pérez looked
up when the women approached, and eyed them suspiciously. “I know you. So,
you’re not a prostitute, eh, Doña?” he said to Ana. “Well, if you’re not, what
are you doing in the company of this puta?”
Ana
controlled herself, and squeezed Emilia’s arm as a reminder to remain calm. “We
want to see the doctor who examined María Santiago. Where can we find him?”
“Santiago?
Hmm, I seem to recall that name,” he said, and then yawned. “That would have
been Doctór Toro. He happens to be in his office right now, second door on the
left,” he pointed down the hall. “Good luck, girls. Tell María I said hello.”
“Hijo de la gran puta,” Emilia cursed
under her breath. They found the doctor eating at a desk, in desperate need of
a napkin as he bit into a chicken leg. His lips and chin shone with greasy
tomato sauce as he looked at them through thick eyeglasses perched on his
bulbous nose. He seemed surprised to see them.
“What do you
need?”
“Are you
Doctór Toro?”
“Yes, I am,”
he said, finally wiping his mouth.
“We are…I
mean, this is María Santiago’s sister,” Ana said, pointing at Emilia, knowing
he wouldn’t speak to them if one of them wasn’t a family member. You examined
her last night.” Ana couldn’t tell whether he remembered María or not. “Do you
remember her?”
“Yes, yes,
what about her?”
Ana
continued in a terse tone she couldn’t control, “Have you already taken blood
samples?”
“Yes, I
have,” he said, visibly irritated. “Look, if you want the results, you’ll have
to wait outside. Who are you again?”
“This is
María’s sister. We’ll be outside. Thank you, Doctór.” Ana pushed Emilia out the
door.
“Do you
think she has syphilis? What’ll we do if the results are positive?”
Ana shook
her head. “I don’t know, Emilia, but let’s not lose hope until the results come
back. It’s all in God’s hands now.” Despite the cold, metal chairs they sat on,
Emilia soon fell asleep against Ana’s shoulder. Ana sat quietly, invoking all
the gods and goddesses to protect María, and as she prayed, her eyes grew
heavy. The women were roused by a nurse, who ushered them into the doctor’s
office.
“Your friend
is clean. No infectious disease,” said the doctor to no one in particular. Ana
hated his use of the word “clean”. He put down the file, and looked at the
Emilia. “We encouraged your sister to undergo sterilization. She did very
well.”
Emilia’s jaw
dropped. “What?” She looked at Ana, who was sure they were thinking the same
thing—María would have never have submitted to sterilization.
“She is
being released now,” Del Toro said, signing a paper on his desk. “Wait for her
at the front gate.” The doctor turned back to the paperwork on his desk, and
then looked up. “That is all,” he said, looking surprised that Ana and Emilia
were still standing in his office.
“Where is
her signed consent?” Ana was amazed at her presence of mind in light of the
shocking news, and Emilia’s face echoed her sentiment. The doctor rifled
through the papers on his desk, and produced the one María had signed.
Emilia
leaned over the desk. “I don’t believe this. María wanted children; I know
this. You must have tricked her into signing! She must have been drunk, because
she never would have signed this sober!”
“Your sister
is a single, working woman with no husband,” he said to Emilia. “Who would have
taken care of her children while she worked the streets? You? Ponce has too
many street urchins as it is. Like hundreds of other women, your sister doesn’t
use birth control. She wasn’t the first, and she certainly won’t be the last
woman to be sterilized in this city.”
“¡Abusadór! She probably trusted you, and
you abused her innocence! You tricked my sister into signing. Who are you to
deny her rights as a woman? You will rot in Hell for what you’ve done to her.”
“We are
doing what needs to be done.”
Ana
restrained Emilia as she reached for a heavy-looking paperweight sitting on the
doctor’s desk, knowing what direction she would have thrown it. The paperweight
would have knocked some sense in the man, but it would have also landed Emilia
in jail. “Let’s take María home, Emilia. We’re finished here.”
Historical
novelist, Eleanor Parker Sapia was born in Puerto Rico and raised as an Army
brat in the United States, Puerto Rico, and many European cities. As a child,
she could be found drawing, writing short stories, and reading Nancy Drew books
sitting on a tree branch. Eleanor’s life experiences as a painter, counselor,
alternative health practitioner, a Spanish language social worker, and a
refugee case worker, continue to inspire her writing. Eleanor loves introducing
readers to strong, courageous Caribbean and Latin American women who lead
humble yet extraordinary lives in extraordinary times. Her debut historical
novel, A Decent Woman, set in turn of
the century Puerto Rico, has garnered praise and international acclaim. She is
a proud member of PENAmerica and the Historical Novel Society. A Decent Woman is July 2015 Book of the
Month for Las Comadres and Friends National Latino Book Club. Eleanor is
currently writing her second historical novel titled, The Island of Goats, set in Puerto Rico, Spain, and Southern
France. When Eleanor is not writing, she loves facilitating creativity groups,
and tells herself she is making plans to walk El Camino de Santiago a second
time. Eleanor has two loving grown children, and currently lives in wild and
wonderful West Virginia.
I am a baby boomer, born in the
1950’s to practicing Mennonite parents. As a girl child, that simply meant that
I needed to always wear a dress and have my hair uncut in pig-tails. We
attended church on Sunday mornings and were supposed to attend church on Sunday
evenings and Wednesday evenings too for prayer meetings. My parents, even in
those early years, deviated away from the expectations of church members
because of distance to the church building from our farm and the higher
priority my parents placed on farm work. The three of us children were also
sent to public school rather that to the church parochial school that was much
more common among members. Below is a segment from my book with a very concise
version of what Mennonites believe.
Oh yes, gym class is
my bane. But how can I make an A in gym when I am the only one wearing a dress
while trying to climb a rope or perform cartwheels? We are Mennonites, so every
day, I wear a skirt and blouse as my basic attire. A single braid of uncut hair
snakes down my back beyond my waist. It is capped by a small mesh “covering” on
my head.
Mennonites are distinguishable
from other Christian denominations primarily by several beliefs that are
distinct. They were, historically, called Anabaptists because of their
rejection of infant baptism and the practice of believer’s baptism. The
Mennonite Christian is to be separate from the world in all practices. This
translates into a strict belief in the separation of church and state and the
practice of non-resistance. No church member may serve in the military,
participate in a lawsuit, vote, or hold public office. Dressing differently
from the world is also stressed. For women, this means they are not to “use
makeup, cut their hair, and wear slacks, shorts, or fashionable head dress,
short sleeves, low necklines, dresses not reaching well below the knees, or
clothes that expose the form of the body in an immodest way. The hair is to be
covered with a veil of sufficient size to adequately cover the head.”
(Excerpted from the Statement of Christian Doctrine and Rules and Discipline,
Lancaster Conference of the Mennonite Church, July 17, 1968.)
Amanda Farmer was born in Pennsylvania and
moved with her family to Minnesota at age 16. She lived and worked on the farm
until age 29. Amanda earned a master's degree in Nurse Anesthesia in 2007 and
currently works in that profession. She enjoys reading, writing, and most any
outdoor activity. She and her husband of 23 years live on a hobby farm in
southeastern Minnesota. They have one college-age daughter, 2 cats, a dog, and
some fish. All the animals were obtained in response to "P-l-e-a-se Mom!"
Like most people, I first heard about AIDS in the early
80’s, but the history of HIV and AIDS starts much earlier. Genetic analysis places the origins of HIV-1
between 1910 and 1930 in West Africa, a full half-century before it’s
recognition. The story of my father’s battle with the disease began remarkably
close to the date of its first recognition as a disease by the CDC in 1981.
My parents separated shortly thereafter, and I remember like
it was yesterday the final moment I heard my father’s voice as a child. At the
time, we lived in a trailer park in Radcliff, Kentucky. Half asleep, I heard
him walk through the door, but the fatigue in my young body prevented me from
fully registering his presence. Had I known it would be the last opportunity to
see him until graduation, I’m convinced I would have forced myself awake, and I
often reflected back on that memory with regret.
In 1983 we managed to move from the trailer park in Kentucky
to an urban ghetto in Charlotte, NC, and I later learned that learned that my
father moved to San Francisco not long after my parents separation. Soon after,
around the age of nine, I became aware my father was gay. It came out from an
argument I had with my mother. I told her that I wanted to go live with dad,
and that’s when she said that I shouldn’t do that because he was a homosexual.
I was stunned. I didn’t know how to process the information
at such a young age. I didn’t even fully grasp what it meant. I remember
talking with some of the neighborhood kids about it, which just left me even
more confused.
Later I learned that he was also suffering from severe
bipolar disorder, something that has come to haunt my family. Mental issues
were not unique to us, but were especially devastating in his case. I was told
he often stopped taking his medication, which led to frequent bouts of
homelessness and stints in mental institutions. It also came out in
conversations that he was a heroin user and would call family members after he
had just shot up. That put him squarely in several high risk groups in a region
of the country that was being consumed by the disease.
I first became aware of my father’s HIV diagnosis when I was
in eighth grade in 1989. My mother told me that we started receiving government
benefits related to his condition, though the meager benefits did little to
lift us out the abject poverty in which we found ourselves. Despite his status,
I still thought about living with him and wondered if my situation would be
better if I were.
His illness made me keenly aware of the disease and
everything related to it. I would often cringe when people would spout off
about things that I knew were false. I remember one time in high school, my
favorite teacher gave a comment that made me sick to my stomach. She said she
didn’t understand why the government didn’t just round up all the people with
AIDS and put them on an island to isolate them from the rest of the population.
I can’t express the shock and betrayal I felt at such an
ignorant statement, especially coming from someone I looked up to. By that
time, it was well known HIV was caused by blood and certain bodily fluids and
was actually difficult to transmit, especially compared to other diseases such
as Hepatitis, so I just couldn’t fathom why she would say that. I couldn’t help
but think it was related to many people’s false belief that it was a gay
disease and God’s retribution against gays and drug users.
In my senior year in high school, I had the opportunity to
participate in the North Carolina Mock Trial Competition. I chose the role of
the attorney representing a student who had been kicked out grade school as a
result of testing positive for HIV. Ironically, the same teacher who made those
comments was on the team that coached us, and I took solace in the fact that I
won the case and was named honorable mention for best attorney in the
competition.
Although I didn’t see my father again until I was seventeen,
I did think about him frequently.
My Father’s story, though sadly ended with his death on
Father’s Day 1997 when I was 21, just before protease
inhibitors became ubiquitous and might have been able to extend his
life beyond his early forties. The good news is that for the current generation
of HIV patients, the prognosis is much better. While challenges remain with
respect to access and education, especially in undeveloped regions of the
world, the current cocktail of drugs has allowed many with the means to treat
HIV as a chronic condition instead of a death sentence.
While a cure and an effective vaccine has promised to be
just beyond the horizon for quite some time, several breakthroughs have
occurred in recent years, including the production of a synthetic antibody known as 3BNC117, which
give hope to a possible final chapter on the illness.
I know I am not alone in my desire that stigmas of this
disease, and other diseases for that matter, will fade and that education and
understanding will win out in the future. I am not so naive as to think that
this will happen anytime soon, but as our understanding of biology and human
nature grows, I am optimistic that our approach to prevention and treatment of
diseases will grow along with it.
Roy Huff is the award winning author of Amazon's #1 international bestselling epic fantasy novel, Everville: The First Pillar; InD'Tale Magazine's Crème de la cover March 2014 winner, Everville: The City of Worms; and Readers' Favorite 2014 young adult fantasy silver medal winner, Everville: The Rise of Mallory. These are the first installments in the remarkable Everville series which combines elements of epic fantasy and young adult fiction in a form that nearly anyone will enjoy reading, young or old. He is a man of many interests including but not limited to science, traveling, movies, the outdoors, and of course writing teen and young adult fantasy fiction. He holds five degrees in four separate disciplines including liberal arts, histoRoy Huff is the award winning author of Amazon's #1 international bestselling epic fantasy novel, Everville: The First Pillar; InD'Tale Magazine's Crème de la cover March 2014 winner, Everville: The City of Worms; and Readers' Favorite 2014 young adult fantasy silver medal winner, Everville: The Rise of Mallory. These are the first installments in the remarkable Everville series which combines elements of epic fantasy and young adult fiction in a form that nearly anyone will enjoy reading, young or old. He is a man of many interests including but not limited to science, traveling, movies, the outdoors, and of course writing teen and young adult fantasy fiction. He holds five degrees in four separate disciplines including liberal arts, history, secondary science education, and geoscience. Roy Huff's background includes work in art, history, education, business, real-estate, economics, geoscience, and satellite meteorology. He was born on the East Coast but has spent more than half his life in Hawaii, where he currently resides and writes his epic fantasy sagas.
