This morning I drove a formerly well traveled route. I attended a memorial at Fuller Funeral Home on Cutting Boulevard in Richmond. This time the memorial was for the grandmother of one of the micro-premie girls I worked with. Her mother dropped her off at her mother's home in San Pablo before she went to work. Those were the good days before the draconian cuts began, so I would see the girl at her grandmom three times a week. The girl was a micro premie - born just on the edge of being viable. Her first two months were in the NICU and she was referred to me with a page full of all the complications of extreme prematurity. In addition to everything else, while in the NICU she had ripped out the tubes from her nose and mouth and so had two scars down either side of her tiny face. She was born a fighter - which is why she survived. African American girls are the strongest survivors of premature birth. I think this is genetic - they come from generations of survivors. it was quite obvious her grandmother was such a woman. When I met her she was retired from her 40 years of work as a social worker. She was a big woman - very big, both in stature and her bearing. As big as she was, her heart was just as big; open and welcoming. Which is why I attended her memorial today - I have remained in touch with this family every since I began to work with them. I was there to pay my respects, to her family, and of course to her.
I called the funeral home beforehand to ask about Covid precautions. They told me everyone had to wear masks and we would be seated appropriately socially distanced. At this time the delta mutation is raging, and I know that not everyone there has been vaccinated. Nevertheless, I decided to attend, and I am very pleased I did. I suppose I will know soon enough whether I have been infected. It is hard to keep on a mask while sobbing, which most people were doing - especially the men, it seemed.
This woman had 4 children, 16 children, 18 great grandchildren and a host of relatives both on her side and her husband's side. I met many of them over the years - at funerals, weddings, graduations, and family get togethers. Today was a gathering of people on walkers, robust and healthy people, children - a bustle of braids and barrettes and eyelashes and red and black clothing. The pastor, a family member, spoke of the love, the need for family to help each other - he preached, he sang, he spoke, he berated the congregation, and they murmured and answered in assent, and raised their hands, and swayed to the music.
Then came the viewing and the final farewells. Thank goodness I have seen this before, because the first time I attended a Baptist funeral I almost fainted. I was ushered up to the casket and I sort of looked sideways at this doll that didn't resemble the woman, and put my hands to my heart, and left.
This was the second time this week of being together with congregations, mourning, and celebrating life.
1 comment:
Mourning and celebrating life, yes, Nesta. That is what we do alone and in community. Doing this together in recurring ritual is the mark of intact societies. I am thinking about how this educated great-grandmother was a role model to her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren and, as you said when we spoke, I grieve and rage with you over the tragedy of your clients’ poor diets due only to the lack of caring. The systemic lack of proper, nutritious food kills poor people. Yet, what a joy that you got to be with your beloved former “micro-premie”, now a full-grown woman, to honor her grandmama and see her off in that community’s particular way. Holy holy.
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