In the End He Wanted to Die

This is about my Winfield, who was a genius. He was a genius as an artist, calligrapher and writer, but he was also a petty criminal. He was committing crimes just to survive, though, because he had a problem. That problem was heroin addiction.

Winfield grew up in a small town as one of eleven children, and growing up poor was very, very tough. Winfield was considered incorrigible and put in a school, Slaton Farm, at an early age. There he learned a lot of the tricks of the street trade. But he also had a gift for art, one that I have not seen in anyone else who has never had formal training. He was a lovable person, a very giving person, but in addition to his caring side, he had a side to him that did whatever it took to make it. So he served several years in jail for petty crimes, and both in and out of jail, he would use heroin. I never knew that he was even on drugs; as a doctor, I would have noticed any tracks on his arms or legs, and I never saw any. I eventually found out where he injected the heroin: In his privates so no one would ever know.

When I met him, Winfield was homeless, living on the top floor of an abandoned building. But because he was such a wonderful, nice person and had a lovely personality, I took to him. My family--my mother, my brother and my sister-- all adopted him. I had Winfield paint my office because no one could paint as good as he. Then one day, to my chagrin, I found out that someone had broken into my office but didn’t disturb anything in it—the burglar knew right where to go. He had stolen my change. I saw him, and I flew down the street in my white coat. I caught him and cursed him out in the middle of the street. He said laughingly, “Next time, shoot me, because I was so embarrassed seeing you in a white coat, chasing me down the street, telling me I know better than to steal from you because you always gave to me.” Whenever he needed an odd job, I was always there to help him. I would take him food and then bring him to my house so that he could bathe and clean himself up.

Winfield was handsome. He had eyes that could capture anyone. He also had the gift of gab because he was very bright. But he had been labeled incorrigible for no good reason. I feel that if he had gotten a chance, he could have made it in any college. Anyway, Winfield contracted a disease that eventually did kill him; it was called AIDS. He became infected with HIV from sharing needles. He died with courage. He came to my office shortly after I got back from my trip to Brazil, and he looked fabulous. Later that night, his girlfriend called me and said he was in the hospital. It turned out that his kidneys had failed some time before, and he never knew it. When I visited him in the hospital, he told me he wanted no medication, nor did he want dialysis; he preferred to die peacefully, letting his diseases run their course. He never came back out, but he left behind some of his paintings, which eventually I’ll have appraised. I’m still friends with his girlfriend and will always be. I will just say she’s called “6-9,” and I love her. She stood by him to the end, and she and I both loved him because we knew the good that was in him. Winfield, our city owes you a tribute, because your artwork supersedes any of the other bad things that they said you did. You had a kind heart.

He was beaten by the guards while in jail. Several other prisoners were also beaten, but he alone fought back in court. When he did, he won his case, and that I will never forget. He was a man of courage. A man may leave behind his children, but he also leaves behind people who will always love and miss him. Yes, Winfield, you are missed.