The Mourning Call

Staginald “Jaye” Walthour

source: Billboard

As I sat in the back seat of my mother’s olive green ‘91 Chrysler LeBaron, I noticed a group of people dancing in the yard across the street from our house—although I believe calling what they were doing “dancing” was an understatement. It was the middle of a sunny and crisp fall eve in Hinesville, the small town in Georgia that I called home. My mother, siblings, aunt and I had just returned home when we happened upon this faire la fête­­—a varied array of Black bodies, women and men, gyrating and grinding on each other to the hypnotic beats of R&B and hip-hop. The sounds of Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock’s “It Takes Two,” Bell Biv DeVoe’s “Poison,” and SWV’s “I’m So In to You” reverberated through the speakers. 

While my family and I remained in the car gazing on this rabble, my eyes gravitated toward this flamboyant and vibrantly dressed man wearing a purple chiffon shirt with matching slacks and shoes. He seemed to dance with every person there. The way that he glided from person to person reminded me of Pieter Bruegel’s Wedding Dance in the Open Air.

In him, I saw a kindred spirit. I didn’t know how to explain this feeling of joy that came upon me as I watched this man move with so much freedom. All I knew, even at such a young age, was that I had to remain quiet, still. Beautiful, vibrant, flamboyant men were not to be openly celebrated in my town, like in so many other southern small towns.    

K.R. Tinnen was his name. He had attended the same high school as my mother, only he was a year younger than she was.

“K.R. was always a social butterfly,” my mother told me.

“He seemed to get along with most people, even though he was that way.”

Of course, at the time, I didn’t know what that way meant, but I knew that it could not have been good.

Growing up in a Christian home, I was always told that God made no mistakes. Yet in the same breath, homosexuality was supposed to be this garment that one adorns to satisfy the flesh. And because it’s a “choice,” by that logic, the individual is simultaneously making the decision to make Hell their eternal home. The more time that I spent in church listening to these “fire and brim stone” sermons, the more I envisioned my soul being dark as soot. I felt that if God himself would have taken an x-ray of my soul, it would have been a pitch-black, starless, moonless night. No matter the good deeds I might have done or the kindness that I might have shown, because a person was that way, it meant automatic separation from God’s love.  Forever.

Two years had passed since I first saw K.R. I turned eleven and I began to take a sexual health class in middle school. One of the first topics that we discussed was sexually transmitted diseases. When we discussed HIV/AIDS, I remember feeling anxious and nauseous about the topic. The teacher described it as this insidious monster lurking in the shadows of unsuspecting bodies, and if anyone touched or breathed on you and they had it, then tag, you’ve got it. At least, that was how my neurotic eleven-year-old mind interpreted it. The moment that the teacher stated that homosexual men were at a higher risk of infection, all of the church rhetoric came rushing to the forefront of my mind like a hurricane ripping through a city. 

I remember one of the main headlines during that time was the story of Ryan White. He was a young teenager who contracted HIV/AIDS in 1984 after he received a blood transfusion because of his hemophilia. There were already massive amounts of discrimination being hurled against the gay community for contracting the gay plague. But when thirteen year old Ryan contracted the disease from a blood transfusion, when he tried to return to school, like so many others, his community shunned him. Humanity had reached an even lower rung on the ladder of morality. In 1990, at the tender age of 18, Ryan White passed away one month before graduating high school from complications due to HIV/AIDS.

Sometime soon thereafter, my mother mentioned to me that K.R., this beautiful, vibrant, flamboyant social butterfly had also passed away from AIDS. I remember feeling numb at first. But at that age, the only act of kindness that I could think to render was a phone call. Without my mother’s permission, I went through the phone book and called at least four Tinnens until I finally reached the correct one. K.R.’s mother picked up the phone.  She verified it when I asked.  

“Hello, ma’am. I just wanted to say that I am very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome, ma’am.”

I disconnected the call. Although I did not know K.R., in some strange way, I felt that I needed closure.

In the moments after I set the phone back on the receiver, I began to reminisce on that warm and crisp fall day when I watched K.R. dance from my mom’s LeBaron. We just sat in the car, watching, until we finally opened the car doors and stepped out. We walked up to the door of our own quiet house, waving to some of the revelers as we passed.

In a break from his dancing, K.R. and my mother caught each other’s eyes. They both waved at each other, we went inside our home, and K.R. went back to dancing. 

Staginald “Jaye” Walthour is a senior at The City College of New York. He is working towards a degree in both political science and in journalism. He is passionate about propelling conversations involving societal issues through the art of storytelling.