by G. Jack Urso
Jose was one of my first students
in the college program I began running at Hudson Correctional Facility in
1989. My first impression of him came the first night of the
Spring 1990 semester when he skipped class, claiming to be ill. I went to his
cottage to deliver his books to him and the correctional officer pointed down a
short hallway to his dorm room. I went and found him and several other inmates
smoking a joint.
Jose looked at me like a kid
caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Everyone went silent.
“Uh . . . ” he muttered, “Want a hit?”
The other inmates broke up
laughing. I declined his gracious invitation and never reported the incident. I
couldn’t fault them for finding some solace from being in the can.
Jose was incarcerated for raping a
minor. Rumors are a dime a dozen in jail, but the word was the victim was a child under 12. There is a common perception that child rapists are
tortured in prison by other inmates. While that may be true, I never saw any evidence of it. Most
inmates are simply not willing to risk their “good time” satisfying the
need for justice of those who put them behind bars. If someone does get attacked, it's often for reasons other than their crimes. Jose quietly completed his degree
and then transferred to another facility.
A couple years later, Jose transferred back to Hudson looking about thirty pounds lighter. Jose was somewhat
slight to begin with, so the weight loss was noticeably unhealthy. His brown
skin seemed paler, his eyes watery.
Entering my office, Jose seemed
anxious to speak with me. I thought it curious because I seldom spoke to Jose
when he was a student. He had me pegged as an over-educated college boy too
nice to drop a dime on him when I caught him smoking weed in the dorm room.
He closed my office door and told me that he had AIDS, and he was dying.
I was stunned; no one had ever opened up to me like this before. My role was as an academic advisor, not a therapist. I advised
students about which courses to take and which majors to declare — questions about life and death were not in my job description.
With all the counselors on staff,
I wondered why Jose elected to tell me. He was not in the college program
anymore and, as I previously stated, I had little interaction with him while he
was a student.
I read Randy Shilts' massive book, And the Band Played On: Politics, People,
and the AIDS Epidemic. Indeed, it sat on a shelf in my office when I took over the job. A compelling mystery, I read it on lunch breaks and between programs — several times. A family friend died because of AIDS-related complications so I had some sympathy most, at the time, did not. In
the early 1990s, fear ran rampant about the disease. People feared being touched
by someone with AIDS. HIV-positive children were driven out of their schools
and communities. For someone like Jose, a child rapist, exiting the world
at this time was going to be a long, hard journey.
 |
"Could I Not Move Like a Clock?" Inmate art by Michael Nieves, 1994.
Author's collection. |
Inmates seldom ever speak about
their crimes, and while Jose seemed to want to speak about the weight of his life,
he was unable to do so. Perhaps the fear of being rejected by even the too-nice-for-his-own-good college kid held him back. I felt a like a priest being asked to give last
rites.
There is a secret fantasy I think we all entertain when contemplating our own shuffling off of the mortal coil — just who will miss us when we are gone. For someone like Jose,
who burned many bridges in his life, those numbers were few. Even though my
relationship with Jose was minimal beyond my role as an academic advisor, I
think he wanted to know there were people he had to say goodbye to even if
no one would miss him.
Speaking with Jose, it became
clear that he was analyzing his life in an entirely different light since his
diagnosis. I could sense the regret he felt for not being more aware of the
pain he caused others until now, when there was nothing he could do about it
but just lie down and die.
I know there are many reading
this now who feel Jose’s condition was the result of him sowing the seeds of his own self-destruction
and whatever lonely, pathetic death he suffered was just reward for the crime
he committed. I can't say such thoughts did not also cross my mind.
Nevertheless, looking at Jose and seeing the whole weight of his existence settling in on his shoulders
and pushing him into the ground with each passing moment, I figured he didn't need me to tell him what he already thought himself. Overwhelmed by the whole tragedy, I could only embrace Jose and wish him Godspeed.
I never saw him again after
that. According to my research, Jose died about eight months before his next parole
hearing and exactly one month before author Randy Shilts also died
of complications brought on by AIDS.
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