The Independent’s schoolteacher/ diarist finds the job takes her to a funeral — a funeral like none she’s seen before.
Nov. 19, 2005
I went to Brinn’s mom’s funeral yesterday during school. I was expecting to go to the visiting hours to be able to say hello to Brinn, but much to my surprise, “visiting hours” don’t mean that you visit with the family. I walked into the church and down the aisle to say goodbye to a woman I’d only spoken to on the phone. She lay there in her casket and all I could say was, “Thank you for Brinn.”
I waited at the church until a few more teachers from school showed up, then we walked into a pew to sit together. It appeared we would be staying for the funeral.
I feel lucky not to have much experience with funerals. I’ve only been to two in my whole life, and they were very different from each other. One was a traditional Catholic funeral: few speakers, many readings from the bible, a lot of sniffling and silence. The other was my father’s funeral, and even then, it was more of a memorial service than a funeral; his body wasn’t there because he was cremated and I can’t remember a single reading from the bible, although it wouldn’t surprise me if there was one. But God didn’t play a central role in the service.
I didn’t know what to expect during Brinn’s mom’s service. One of the teachers in the pew, who is African-American, asked me if I’d ever been to a black funeral before. I told her “no,” and she shook her head. “I can’t even really go to them,” she said. “There’s so much sadness, so much music, so much crying. They’re so sad.”
It seemed to me like that was kind of an obvious statement to make. Regardless of race, funeral services all seemed sad. I didn’t see what race had to do with it.
After we’d been there for 20 minutes or so, I noticed that one whole side of the church was empty. I couldn’t imagine why, until I heard a voice from the back and turned to see the double doors open, through which sixty or so people began to file, led by a minister. The minister called out a line from the bible, and the group started walking to the front, filling in the pews.
Music, sad and soulful music, poured out of the speakers at the front of the church, and I searched the group for Brinn. I assumed she’d be at the front of the group, but for the life of me, I couldn’t see her. And then my eyes rested on a beautiful young girl — “a young woman, really — “with set curls and a pink and purple tweed jacket and skirt. She was beautiful. It was Brinn, and my heart squeezed a little in recognition. Brinn was gripping the arm of a girl who walked next to her. If that girl had stepped away from Brinn, I wasn’t convinced Brinn would be able to stand on her own. I followed her with my eyes and read her face. It was broken. Absolutely broken. (I’ve tried three or four times now to describe how her face looked and I can’t get it right without sounding clich√©d. Of course I can’t describe it. How can you describe a moment like this without sounding clich√©d?)
I didn’t catch eyes with Brinn. I couldn’t have if I wanted to anyway, because she never opened her eyes. She just walked and sobbed the whole way from the back of the church to the front. I lost her when she entered the pew and didn’t see her again.
I thought maybe I’d be able to keep a calm face. But seeing Brinn’s made me break down. For the first time I saw Brinn completely vulnerable. In school, she always has someone to prove something to, so she keeps a straight face all the time. But here, in church at her mother’s funeral, she had nothing to prove. She was in the arms of family and surrounded by friends and a community who was feeling the same way. So she could break down. And her breakdown crushed me.
The music continued for a long time, until everyone in the procession had taken a seat. A facilitator stood to say some words, Kleenex and programs were handed out, and there was more singing. This whole time, the casket was open. The second set of music was an upbeat repetitive gospel song sung by the choir and, at the end, the whole church. During the singing, two men walked up the aisle to the casket and began to close it. I could think of Brinn, sitting there just in front of the casket, watching these men cover her mother’s body for the last time. The men adjusted the flowers on top and walked back down the aisle. While the men were up there, I noticed that the singing got louder. People in the congregation began to stand and sway, to clap and jump around. The choir, too, got even more vocal and physical. Two women began dancing around in a circle, moving their hands and arms around in front of them and above them. The clapping got louder, the singing louder —-” until at one point it sounded as if the choir were literally yelling “hallelujah” instead of singing it. I wondered what Brinn was thinking during all of this. I wondered if the music was helping her cry and get emotional.
I couldn’t help but think about the two other funerals I’d been to. They were quiet and reserved. You could hear people turning pages or crossing their legs in the pews. This service was deafening. I thought about how appropriate it is to feel all of this terrible emotion, all of this sadness and depression, and literally to be able to jump around and clap and scream and yell it out. I didn’t want Brinn to stifle the emotions I knew she kept trapped inside. I wanted her to be able to get it out. And it seemed to me like this ceremony was one that would physically allow her to feel her pain, rather than to keep it in and repress it. Maybe that was the role race played in funerals. Maybe that’s what the teacher meant when she said black funerals were so sad. In reality, this funeral wasn’t any sadder than the others I’d been to. But it was more emotive than almost anything I’ve ever seen. Perhaps the teacher meant that African American culture is one that practices the communal and physical release of emotion, while white culture practices a more introspective, restrained, or rigid kind of release of emotion. Certainly that was the case in my own experience of grieving.
I’m not sure when Brinn’s coming back to school. Last week, she told me that she wanted to move to Atlanta so she wouldn’t have to live at home. She said she wanted to move down there over Thanksgiving or around the holidays. I don’t know if she’ll follow through with these plans. I hope she doesn’t. I think she needs to stay here and work through it. As good as she think it may feel to go away from this place, she can’t go away from her emotions.