The death of my Uncle Joe had a profound impact on me. He passed from a heart attack at a relatively young age. We were not particularly close. Although he had a great personality and we got along, I don’t recall spending a lot of quality time together. What affected me the most is that my family neglected to tell me he had died. I found out from another inmate who happened to see the obituary and noticed the same last name.
This event drove home the realization that while I am serving a “life sentence,” others view it as a death sentence. They do not show me the same courtesy or empathy I would receive otherwise. His death had me thinking not about my own mortality but my very significance as a human being. My mother once exclaimed she had “lost her son.” Speaking about me as if I had passed away.
Despite the fact we are able to communicate on a regular basis, I somehow lack solidity on this side of the fence. My younger brother revealed that sometimes he and Mom swap stories about me. Talking about me like I once was. My letters and e-mails go unanswered. My phone calls are occasionally accepted yet I cannot afford them regularly. When we do talk I hear half-hearted apologies; how they are so busy and time just flies.
I do not expect any real sympathy. I made an awful decision as a teenager, taking the life of another human being. One who I loved dearly and was very close to me. My own grandmother. Now, in return, I am exiled and acknowledged only in the past tense. An unperson in “Newspeak” vocabulary.
My Uncle Joe was quite the character. According to family lore, he ran away from home as a kid, joining the circus. He never confirmed this. His attitude was always, “Everyone thinks I’m crazy. They’re the ones who are crazy!” He was such a zany and loveable guy.
His wife was the polar opposite. A stern woman named Robin who I suspect is why my mother rarely visited. My exposure to Uncle Joe was mostly limited to family gatherings. He did show up at one of my court dates for support. Thinking of family, I am reminded of a quote by Emerson: “What you do shouts so loudly I cannot hear what you say.” Joe was not as judgmental.
It was not only the passing of my uncle Joe that affected me. It is every wedding, birth, funeral and family reunion, every birthday party, every holiday. Each time where I too cannot exchange family gossip over cake and ice cream. Each time I hear about them I am reminded that the old adage is true, “Out of sight, out of mind.” Given ample time to ponder everything, I think about what it means to be human. Even if I am not notified of current events, I am still thankful to be alive. Perhaps one day those who shun me will forgive.
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