First, it was my brother Bobby—the kind of person who never met a stranger. Bobby had a gift for making people laugh. He was just like our father in that way. Even though we grew up poor, Bobby never seemed to go without. People were drawn to him. They bought him things, helped him out, and wanted him around simply because they liked him. He had that effect on people.
But like our father, Bobby carried a heavy burden: alcoholism.
Bobby had made mistakes, including DUI fines and a marijuana possession charge that eventually landed him in jail. Still, he was trying to turn his life around. He enrolled in a technical college, studying auto body repair, and for the first time in a long while, he had hope. He told me that at school he felt different—focused, motivated. He cared deeply, even when others didn’t seem to.
Unfortunately, one visit back to his old hometown and old friends pulled him back into familiar patterns. A decision to buy marijuana led to his arrest. The day he stood before the judge was one of the strangest days of my life—almost mystical in its weight and finality.
I was there with a letter from the school confirming his enrollment, hoping it would help. It didn’t. When his lawyer questioned whether the substance was truly marijuana, the judge responded sarcastically that he didn’t know many people who carried turnip greens in little plastic bags. The judge ruled that Bobby could not return to his out-of-state school and instead should remain in town with my mother.
But my mother already had two young children with my stepfather, and the responsibility would have been overwhelming. When asked if she could take Bobby in, she hesitated. That hesitation sealed his fate. Bobby stayed in jail.
That day, in my heart, was when Bobby began dying.
Weeks later, he was finally released and was on his way to come live with me. He never made it. Bobby was hit by a train. They said he was intoxicated.
I remember my siblings and I shopping for his burial clothes. He had to wear jeans—Bobby always wore jeans. Then came the question of underwear. It felt surreal. The store clerk explained they came three pairs to a package. Someone asked what we would do with the other two. The clerk gently offered to remove one pair from the package. We were there, but not really there—half present, half lost in grief.
The open-casket funeral was more than I could bear. People kept saying how good he looked. I finally replied that the only way he would look good was if he were alive. I couldn’t help wondering where all these people had been when he needed them most.
My mother loved Bobby deeply. He was the only one who could truly make her laugh. She hasn’t laughed the same way since he died. That was nearly twenty years ago.
Then there was Randy.
Randy was gentle and kind, someone who never intentionally hurt anyone—except himself. When he was ten years old, he was in a go-kart accident that damaged his voice box. He had pressed the gas instead of the brake and crashed into a chain-link fence. His voice was permanently altered, but he never let that stop him.
With his gravelly voice, Randy worked the drive-through at McDonald’s. Customers often asked if he had a cold. Later, he worked in customer service for a major electronics company. His dream was to become a registered nurse. He achieved it, graduating with a perfect 4.0 average.
Just days after graduation, Randy was diagnosed with full-blown AIDS.
He might have lived longer had he continued taking his antiretroviral medications, but they made him extremely ill. Eventually, he flushed them down the toilet. AIDS did not take him quickly. He suffered. When he finally passed away in the hospital, I believed with all my heart that he was at peace with the Lord.
Randy tried to cope with humor. He once joked that Oprah should have him and our brother Clay on her show because it was probably unusual for two brothers to have AIDS.
Randy and Clay both moved to Los Angeles, where they felt accepted and free to live without constant judgment because of their sexual orientation. Clay was different from Randy—stronger, angrier, more confrontational. But when it came to AIDS, Clay became a fighter. He was once recognized as one of the longest-living people with full-blown AIDS at a time when the diagnosis was considered a death sentence.
Clay told me all his friends were gone, including the partner he loved deeply. Still, he fought on with determination and humor. At one point, his T-cell count was so low that he joked he had named them.
So why am I telling you all this? Why share such painful memories?
Not to make you sad—but to make you think.
If you’ve read this far, you are not afraid of truth. Most people stop listening once death, addiction, or AIDS enters the conversation. We avoid what makes us uncomfortable. That avoidance is why these topics are whispered about, judged, or ignored—and why progress and compassion come so slowly.
I remember how deeply people’s words hurt. Once, my pastor said in a sermon, “God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.” I confronted him afterward and told him how painful that was for me. Shortly after, I left that church.
My brothers had relationships with God. None of us are perfect. We are told not to judge, yet judgment comes so easily—especially toward what we fear or don’t understand.
Alcoholism, AIDS, addiction, illness—these things do not discriminate. They can touch any family. Any life.
We must strive to understand one another.
We must choose compassion over judgment.
And above all, we must love one another—because tomorrow is never guaranteed.
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