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This column first appeared at HuffingtonPost.com. Comments omitted here.
By Beth Arnold
"He was the talent of his generation," author David Halberstam said to my older brother Blair on the telephone. Mr. Halberstam was speaking of our younger brother, Brent, about whose death he had called to express sympathy.
Brent died of AIDS two days before Thanksgiving 17 years ago -- November 20, 1990 -- when he was 34 years old. Actually, Burkitts Lymphoma is what killed him, but he'd been infected with HIV for 4½ years, at least as far as we knew. Before this lethal cancer, he had been zapped by energy-draining and stress-inducing illnesses of this and that -- conditions or problems that meant he never felt completely well. The various maladies sent him to doctors who scheduled tests, gave him sacks of medicines, and wore him out -- but provided no answers or solace. There were none to give, though Brent's medical bills were ever soaring. The physicians wanted to help but knew little to nothing about AIDS.
The day was cold and rainy in Paris. I headed out to Galeries Lafayette to snag some cranberries, my plan being to stir up a fresh relish with the ruby berries, sunburst Clementines, a little sugar, and cinnamon for Thanksgiving. Caught the Metro, even with the strike, and walked out the exit onto the crowded street. Sparkly lights had been put up as far as I beheld, and the annual Christmas tableaux at Printemps and Galeries Lafayette had made their whimsical debut. Sugar plum fairies were dancing through the air.
A couple of months ago I was singing MoveOn.org's praises for having
the balls to run their Petraeus ad, which was morally correct in my
book. Now I ask you: Did the collective mind at MoveOn.org have a
stroke? A community brain injury is the only way I can fathom why they
might have sent an email asking their group to thank Hillary Clinton
for taking the energy and climate crises seriously. They had to thank
her for basically taking the right position.
I just got back from two weeks in Kenya, which were at the minimum
refreshing and at the maximum life-changing. Africa got under my skin.
My take is that experiencing this continent is to feel a tribal
drumbeat that reaches back to the origins of man and our archetypal
memory. On some deep level, we're all home. If North America is the New
World and Europe is the Old World, then Africa is the Primal World.
