ABSTRACT
In my quiet, temperature-controlled and hermetically sealed office in Nashville, Tennessee, I often close my eyes and recall specific songs and stories, testimonies and dramas recorded and transcribed over the years performed by friends and colleagues in Uganda. Last year a first-year medical student and I met in my office to discuss the unique responses of religious NGOs in individual African countries to HIV/AIDS. In mid-conversation she stopped me and blurted out, “Don’t you ever cry?” My reaction was quick and in retrospect inappropriate. I rather nonpassionately told her that in my research and “scientific” work with HIV-positive colleagues my responses and reactions have never really been all that important or interesting and that I have never wanted the focus to be on me or my work. I suppose I was suggesting that her question did not really matter. Wrong answer. I cry. Fast forward. Different time. Different student. Same office with a doctoral candidate. During a conversation about a particular song’s lyrics concerning the lack of access to ARVs in many parts of Uganda, I became overcome emotionally. I chose not to apologize to the student. When I was asked if I would be all right, I took my time before responding that I would not, nor would I ever be “all right.” The student paused before saying, “Good answer.”
