Black Funeral

Having fought over the passenger seat or the back seat, my brother and I would be on our way to the pool for the afternoon when we would pass the church. At some point, it seemed a given that if there were cars there on a Saturday, it was a funeral.

There were a couple of things you knew about Black funerals in the South that were consistent until about 20 years ago.

- The deceased were "held" for a week. That gave relatives from far away places like Detroit and Chicago time to get here.

-The funeral would last "all day." Which could have, I suppose, been any time longer than the hour it took for most white people.

-Because of the length of the funeral program, you would occasionally see somebody out at their eating a snack. This was also true when the church held a revival.

-Funerals were always at the church, never in the so-called chapel of a funeral home. This was in direct contract the location of most white funerals in my home town, even when the deceased was a church goer.

-The energy level was rumored to be much higher in a black funeral. Whites were known to cry a bit, talk nice about the deceased, and often the preacher would try to "save" people if he were Baptist. Then it was over. Black funerals were rumored to have a lot of praise and singing and such as little Baptist boys had never experienced.

And so were the thoughts that went through my mind when I read the email from her, realizing she would travel from San Francisco to Delta in the South for the funera. "My aunt is being taken off a ventilator today. Will you go with me to the funeral?"

I wanted to be sad for her. I felt for her loss, I really did. I briefly wondered why she asked me, since she is an adult and would be within the comfort of her own family. Her fiance is a friend, but wouldn't be able to travel with her. But still, all those thoughts lasted barely 5 seconds before the exciting reality set in: I would be attending my first old school, in the Delta, Black funeral.

I called my co-worker and asked him if he would swap shifts with me, giving me the day off a week later. (Oh, but for the feel of perfect anticipation . . . they were "holding" her for a week!) A few hours later after consulting his girlfriend, he said yes. And I knew it would come to pass.

All the wondrous excitement, all the mystery, all the really good food at the family meal after, would very soon be opened up to me. All the great secrets would unfold, just like all the secrets of the history of the United States in the movie National Treasure, one by one I would know them. And afterwards, I would pile my plate high with real good food.

I could almost feel myself sitting on the genuine naugahyde seats of the 1976 Pontiac Ventura, passing by the little white church on Stringtown Road. I could feel the pinch of the vinyl and my towel over my legs on the way to the swimming pool. I could see the cars in grass surrounding the church. All those secrets would soon be shared with me.

And so, in the fullness of time, they were. . .