It was my birthday, and Chuck wanted to take me to dinner despite how frail he had become. He chose Shogun, the Japanese teppanyaki restaurant in Shreveport that he knew I loved. Chuck was visibly thin by then, but his spirit remained undiminished.
We were seated with strangers around the hibachi grill, the chef chopping vegetables, tossing shrimp tails into his hat, joking with the guests. Then, the chef paused mid-slice, looked at Chuck and said with a half-laugh, “You’re too skinny. You need to eat more!”
Without hesitation, Chuck replied, clearly and unapologetically:
“I. Have. AIDS.”
The chef gasped and stepped back, the rhythm of the evening quicking changed from lighthearted to serious. Around the table, faces shifted—some turned away in discomfort, others softened with sympathy. After a moment, Chuck added,
“Don’t worry. I can’t give it to you from over here.”
That was Chuck. Unflinching. Honest. Never afraid to say what needed to be said, even when the truth made others uncomfortable. I often thought even though it seemed like his words were meant to shock, they were meant to claim space and demand dignity. Even in his decline, he carried himself with the quiet power of someone who refused to let stigma define him.
That night, as I often did, I saw his bravery not in defiance, but in truth.
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