By Ashley May
When I learned that Aretha Franklin had died, I immediately wrapped myself in the comfort of my childhood. My mind flooded with memories of Aretha sangin’ through the speakers on my Saturday mornings. Yes, I said “sang”; it’s not the same as singing, you know! Visions of my mother’s hips shifting as the lyrics brought her joy and pain to life. Vacuuming and dusting taking just a little bit longer—because when Aretha’s words touch the soul, it causes you to pause and take notice.
Of course I was saddened by the loss of another great one. But, growing up Black means you learn a special way of grieving. One that looks a little more like a celebration of life than a somber mourning of the end. And while the white world, and the rest of the other-than Black world, played her music to the tune of what seemed to be a sort of trendy, performative grief devoid of childhood memories like mine, I reclaimed Aretha for me and for us.
That’s what we do. We reclaim our people after death. We carry them home on our backs and in our hearts. We celebrate their beauty in spite of the world that disappointed them, did them wrong, caused them grief, consumed them. And there is so much joy in that!
For as long as I can remember, I have experienced death as a celebration of life. Funeral programs outlining the details of what was most often called a Home-Going Celebration and it read like a playbill with various acts. Slideshows, testaments of beautiful memories, song and hymn, and then the announcement of the repast. Everybody wants to know where the repast will be. Because that’s when the celebration truly starts.
We can expect that everyone will bring their best to the table; spreads upon spreads of casseroles, roasts, pies and cakes. Children run and play freely, while elders sip coffee and share memories that bring tears to their eyes—tears from remembering the joy one brought to our lives, and also tears of sadness. It is very communal in nature; we grieve in community and we have been doing it for lifetimes.
Not long ago, we ushered my eldest paternal uncle “home” in this same fashion. He had lived a good, long life and he could have lived even more. He was gone too soon for us and the loss of this sweet soul shook our foundation. I cried and I cried pools of grief in the days leading up to his funeral. Losing him was like losing a father, no maybe a grandfather because he was that damn great. And just like clockwork on the morning of his funeral the mood shifted. It’s as if my heart knew that I would be yet again wrapped up in the all encompassing love that is the experience of mourning in the Black community.
Relatives and friends of my uncle gathered from near and far reminiscent of the many moments we celebrated with him earth side. Boundaries between the divorced and estranged blurred for the sake of ushering this well loved, well respected man home. And any pain, inequity or trouble my uncle may have experienced in his life at the hands of this world could not stand up to the beauty and ceremony that carried him to his final resting place.
Flower arrangements adorned his casket and the entire room for that matter. His baby brothers and sister, children and grandchildren, best friends and wife stood up in all their grief to speak praises of him. A slideshow filled our hearts with memories, and for those that needed just one last goodbye, a private moment at the coffin was granted before he was carried away on the shoulders of his people. At his repast, live music played and joy poured over. And when the repast came to an end, the celebration carried on at his daughter’s home until we could barely keep our eyes open. We laughed, ate, cried, laughed and cried again.
And at least in my family and my community, we are doing the same for Aretha. Just last Friday, I sat in the company of my grandmother. Still grieving Aretha and confused by the information overload on her favorite news station, the same question looped from her mouth all day “when is Aretha’s funeral?” It seemed her heart wanted to lean on the way news of death and funerals is done among us Black people. Heartfelt phone calls from relatives and word of mouth around the community ensures everyone near and far knows exactly when such and such is going home.
I had no answers for her on that day. So, we ushered Ms. Aretha up yonder the best way we knew how—singing, dancing in fancy dresses grandmother had found in her closet, small talk, and cups of tea filled with praise and remembrance of a great one. And I’d like to think Aretha, our Queen, who endured so many trials and tribulations on her road to Queendom is being honored through these little wakes in homes everywhere in the days that lead up to her funeral, just like we did at my grandmother’s.
This is how we reclaim our people after death. This is how we reclaim our Blackness. It’s so beautiful and you can’t take it away from us. It rides on the waves of ancestral memory running through our veins and for that reason alone it cannot be replicated. This kind of loving on the dead and ushering them out in joy is what brought well deserved honor and respect to demoralized and dehumanized Black people from slavery to the civil rights era.
It embraces the grieving with the promise of support and love that is unique to the Black experience of grief. We lean on memories, we tell stories, we eat food, we sing and we dance; and when we cry we lift each other up with the promise of communal grief. That it’s gonna be alright, baby girl. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Reading Suggestions:
“The Disappearance of Distinctively Black Way to Mourn” The Atlantic (2016)
