When black folk die

Since my mother passed away on December 4, 2008 (her 69th birthday as fate would have it), I have had a front row seat to the inner workings of What Happens When Black Folk Die.

1) Deal with the funeral home in town that your family has always dealt with, no matter how shoddy their service has become.   Of course, I wasn’t informed that they had lost their touch until it was too late and by then it was because I was starting to see it.  They did an excellent job with my dad eight years ago; not so much with my dad.  It’s a good thing that I have a great sense of humor, otherwise I probably would have come unhinged.  A cousin mentioned that she had buried her husband and had already purchased her plot with a cemetery/funeral home that once traditionally served only whites.  I still recall the hoopla from when I was child when the first black woman was buried there.  Apparently someone has realized that all money is green, no matter the source.

2) No one really knows what to do.  Another plus is that I function quite well in crisis situations.  I think that I lack the “fall apart completely” gene altogether.  Good damned thing, too, because in spite of the fact that there were all the offers of “just let me know what I can do to help”, no one really wants to step up to figure out and do The Hard Shit.  Like if I had fallen off the radar in a stupor of grief, I’m not sure my mother would have ever gotten into the ground.

3) Everybody wants something/has an opinion and now is definitely the best time to express yourself.  I have an adult brother who is developmentally disabled.  Everyone wanted to know “well, what’s gonna happen to brother?”  If you’re so concerned, why don’t YOU do something, hmm?  Or why hadn’t you tried to do something for him all of these years?  Other than humor him and assume that he was getting the help he needed when he wasn’t?  (excuse me, is my bitter showing?)  And I’m sure I’ll get around to handling the property.  Telling me that you could use that vehicle out there for whatever it is you want to use it for right now isn’t getting you anything but a mental note of disdain.

4) People you’ve never heard of or haven’t spoken to in years will come out of the woodwork.  I was introduced to a cousin of my mother’s (her mom’s sister’s daughter) whose name I knew but had never realized we were related.  I sat in a room of people who were my blood relatives (some of whom I hadn’t seen since my father died) and had more meaningful conversation with them in one morning than I had in my entire life.

5) People will cook.  Like crazy.  So much food.  One tiny 83 year old white woman who lived the next street over had her friend bring her over so she could bring us deli food which was the southern death knell for your reputation as a cook back in the day.  Which she must have realized because on the day of the funeral, she included some of the most mouth-watering homemade potato salad and peas long-simmered in fat I have seen in quite awhile.  I now know that one of my cousins can do things to a ham that should be illegal.  That same cousin pointed out that you could never be stereotypical about who cooked what as we had proof sitting in front of us.  One cake made by a black woman was sweet but rather dry and crumbly.  Next to it was a pound cake that held that blessed hint of lemony essence and was so moist a beverage was an afterthought at best, courtesy the tiny 83 year old white lady down the street.  Someone’s mac ‘n’ cheese was practically perfect.  All that was missing was a cocktail or six.

6) People will see you and lose their minds in some fashion.  I felt like I did more comforting of those who had heard than anything else.  So many would just break down sobbing while I stood there thinking “wow. good thing I’m holding it together”.

Oh, I think that’s enough for today.

~ by missterioso on December 30, 2008.