Friday, September 29, 2000, 11:30 pm. I get home from my shift parking cars at the hotel.
A flashing red “1” on my answering machine.
I press play. Daniel, my dad's partner.
"Hi Jared, wanted to let you know you lost your father tonight. . ."
I'm sure he says more, but I don't hear. I sit on my bed and cry.
Then, I walk down the street, still in my valet uniform of khaki shorts and white polo shirt, a wad of ones and fives bulging my pocket.
I may have bought a 40 at the liquor store. I may have gotten a drink at the bar where the surfers play pool and snort cocaine.
Or I may have just walked to the beach and sat in the moonlight watching the waves crash on the shore.
I don't remember.
He was HIV+. He was sick. I knew he was going to die. And I still wasn't prepared for it.
Twenty years later, what I am prepared for is to see people's humanity. I'm prepared to listen and empathize and validate people's lived experiences and stay present with their emotions.
I'm prepared to make connections across difference. To share stories. To build trust. To collaborate.
I'm prepared to believe people's truths. To not dismiss their fears and losses and feelings.
I'm prepared to recognize that people need love and compassion. Now and always.
Just like I did. And still do.