Photographic Recollections

Ardell,
1912-1998

Jackie,
1938-1978

Melba,
1927-2007

It is never easy; loosing the ones that you love. But, in loosing them you almost always begin to contemplate the lives they may have led before you knew them. While they are alive you only know them as Grandmother, whose fried chicken wings are the only piece of meat that could cause a vegetarian to falter. Mama, whose voluptuousness I generously inherited, and Auntie whose style was timeless, unmistakable. As they grow older and eventually fade away, these last images and ideas of them are what we retain; the painful scolding in a pointing finger, the security and comfort in warm layers of ample arms and breasts.


But, if you are fortunate enough to have your pick of the personal belongings they leave behind, as I recently did upon the death of my Aunt, old photographs give a glimpse into the individuals they once were, and perhaps even who you are. These photographs remind you that they were once vibrant, sexy and ambitious black women looking toward the future. They were confident and poised, the kind of woman you try to be. They were unafraid, imperfect, unapologetic and beautiful. They are the women I aspire to be like.

Re-col-lec-tion: the power of re-collecting and re-calling the strength, determination and hope in images and remembrances of those who made us strong.

New York Times Obituaries: The Last Fifteen Minutes of Fame

When someone inevitably ask, “So, what’cha gonna do with a degree in English, teach?” I always feel compelled to tell them that yes, teaching is actually my plan B. With an English degree I intend to become a working, well-compensated, literary author and eccentric, traveling the world for the best vegetarian cuisine, collecting rare books and personalities, participating in Voodoo rituals in Haiti, an occasional fish fry back home in St. Louis with my sisters lying about the good old days, and who will inevitably, upon my death, having done something so wildly fascinating that I land a spot in the New York Times obituaries. Unlike your average, everyday, run of the mill obituaries, the NYT obit is like a biography/tribute in a nutshell. And while not just anybody lands a coveted NYT obituary, according to the obituaries editor, Bill McDonald, they do sometimes approach people before they die, “directly but also delicately” to compose a future obituary. (Which is why I’m working on mine now.)

I like how the NYT eulogizes not people who are simply famous. Some of the entries are about people we might not recognize, but who might have done something truly fascinating. Like Kelsie B. Harder,

"whose ruminations about why his parents gave him what sounded like a girl’s name
provoked such enthrallment with proper nouns that he became a leading
onomastician — a student of names and their origins — died on April 12 at his
home in Potsdam, N.Y. He was 84.”

(Me, I can't even pronounce onomastician.) Then there is Harold Max Mayer who died on April 20th. The

“former chairman of Oscar Mayer and Company, he invented the popular Smokie
Link, a spicy hot dog, and took an active role in acquiring and managing the
Claussen Pickle Company and the Louis Rich Company.”

(Who knew?) And, even though I claim to be a little jazz savvy, I didn’t know about Andrew Hill, who worked with the likes of

“Dinah Washington, Johnny Hartman and Dakota Staton. He got a chance to play
with Charlie Parker at the Greystone Ballroom in Detroit in 1954. A job with
Roland Kirk brought him to New York in the early 1960s.”

NYT also pays tribute to the famous and infamous, sometimes adding an extra tidbit about them that we might not know. Like the burly, provincial politician, Boris Yeltsin, who became a Soviet-era reformer. In his autobiography, Yeltsin recalled that as a child, he and his family lived in a hut for 10 years,

“winter was worst of all,” he wrote. “There was nowhere to hide from the cold.
Since we had no warm clothes, we would huddle up to the nanny goat to keep warm.
We children survived on her milk.”

Well, I’m a city girl, so I don’t know anything about huddling up to a nanny goat, but maybe something in my life and work will garner a final nod from the NYT obituaries. “Hey Bill, I’m working on that biography now!”

Last Rites

Having grown up in Baptist and Pentecostal churches, I have attended funeral services that are spirited, to say the least, and most often animated. Although there is a start time, the end time is often unpredictable and sometimes determined by how many people pass out from having the Holy Ghost descend upon them. A soloist wails a gutsy, bluesy rendition of “Precious Lord”, and the choir rock and sway to a thunderous bass line whose vibrations jolt the most solemn of mourners. So watching more reserved tributes to the deceased, such as that of a president, seem a little surreal in its execution.

Nevertheless, I am always taken aback by the formality of white Americans and Europeans, whether it is the funeral services of former presidents, popes or even the marriage of Prince Charles and Diana. No matter what we think of these individuals living or not, the grandeur of these ceremonies is arresting, and commands the awe and attention of the world (and, they cost a lot more than passing the collection plate will ever pay for when the deceased couldn’t afford insurance). There is always a prevailing sense of being in the midst of something historical and memorable. The pomp and circumstance regarded in these universal customs of death and marriage, (although Europeans seem to evoke a little more pomp that Americans), takes on a remote, timeless and enduring quality. In short, white people sure can put on a show. And, whether the program is done in a day, or whether it plays out over the course of a week, I find myself glued to the television and internet until it is over.

The funeral rites of the Pope, with its Sistine Chapel backdrop, the coordinated flow of red Cardinal robes, and the colorful regalia of the Swiss Guards revealed the splendor and mysteries of hundreds of years. A ceremony that, until the death of Pope John Paul II, had only been witnessed by a small fraction of the worlds’ population. And, while the tribute to Gerald Ford was not as over-the-top as Ronald Reagan, it still was a performance for American record books. No matter how scruffy and disheveled American soldiers look in the field, when they put on those dress blues, marching with deadly precision, making a coffin appear to float on air, they bring a degree of dignity to any program, regardless of what people may think of the dead person.

Still there is something more satisfying in watching a sad, New Orleans dirge break into an upbeat, jazzy “O When The Saints, Go Marching In”; people dancing in the street with their ushering uniforms/Mardi Gras costumes on. You haven’t had a good send off unless Sister Jackson does her infamous hoochie, coochie shout down the isle, or the preacher, with his adenoidal lament, attest to your faithfulness in tithing. The image of M.C. Hammer wiggling and gliding on the stage at James Brown’s funeral service in Augusta, Georgia, although unnerving, somehow just feels right. And, as usual, the funerals of others always propels me to think of how I myself would liked to be eulogized, and how I’d like my life to be celebrated when I leave this earth. For starters, I know I want a lot of good music; I’d like some African drumming and dancing, and that New Orleans vibe sounds good. There’s got to be a lot of good food and fellowshipping. And, I want to be remembered for my persistence, my never-give-upness, and maybe my mouth watering Curried, Vegetarian Fish and rice, my words and…