Sandy is my work buddy/sister. I should probably say, "was" since I'm seriously doubting that she'll return to work, especially after this latest episode in her life. I've got to say,watching Sandy exhausts me. She's 3 years older than I am, has 4 grown kids, at least that many grands - 2 or 3 of which she has custody of, she's plus-sized, smokes, works the full and a part-time job, is a dutiful daughter to her elderly parents and she spells relief by working the slots at Mohegan Sun Casino - an hours' drive away. I have no idea how she does it - I'm not sure I want to know since I might be tempted to try it too. We've worked together for the 24 years I've been employed with the State of CT; she was pregnant with her oldest daughter when I started. Let's just say, like most of us, she's been through some things.
I call her my "work sister" since like sisters, we fight, laugh, cry, don't speak for a week or two, hurt each other's feelings, feed one another, encourage each other, will say when the other's hair looks crazy or sharp, commiserate over broken zippers, heels and romances. We make each other laugh loud and hard. Her laugh is infectious and distinctive. Her good natured goofiness makes me yell at her at least 2-3 times a day, "ya NUT!"
She married Larry, the father of 3 of her children about 10 years ago after he'd survived a serious stroke and with much water under their unified bridge. The kids were nearly grown and he was almost 20 years older than her but Sandy had hung in there and got her man. He'd been fighting cancer for the past year or so and lost the bout March 8.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
East Haven, CT
6:00p.m.: Sandy had adopted Milan as her "work daughter" pretty much the day that Milan was assigned to our unit a couple of years ago. That meant Milan had to do pretty much whatever Sandy "asked" her to do - be it fetching food/drink, stuff off the printer, faxing, or revealing the exact color/price/name of the wig she was wearing so Sandy could get one too. And wear it. The same day. Milan's since transferred to another state office for a closer commute but being the respectful "daughter" she is, thought it not robbery to press her way down to New Haven County for Larry's wake. This is relevant since Milan's been out of work for over a month recuperating from foot surgery which meant somebody else had to drive her down here - somebody that doesn't know Sandy OR Larry. That special somebody was her BFF, Kim. They scooped me up and we trouped together. It had been a sunny, relatively mild (for southern New England) March day so I didn't bother with a coat, figuring the pantsuit jacket would suffice since I'd just be going from house-to-car-car-to-funeral home. A good thing too, since as we stepped into the funeral home I hit a wall of heat that I KNEW was not of my bodies' making. The faint sounds of Diddy's "I'll be missing you" floated over the sound system - Kim and I exchanged "WTW??" glances as we made our way to the sign-in book. Not exactly the musical choice I'd expect for an old Irish guy's wake - oh, did I neglect to mention that Sandy/Larry were an interracial couple? Yeah, so anyway...
The funeral home is oddly configured and the narrow entry way we were in opened into the "parlor" where Sandy, in a black velour sheath dress with a silver-glittery jacket was meeting/greeting in front of Larry's open casket. The room was long and fairly narrow and upon first glance (and later, with closer observation) it appeared to be divided along racial lines. That is to say, most of the white people were up front on couches/settees/armchairs and the people of color were sitting towards the back of the room on the folding chairs. Larry was laid out in a tweed blazer,accessorized with a coordinating kangol, smokey lens'd aviators and a rosary in the grip of his stick-o-unsalted butter-pale hands. He didn't look a day sick. Just chillin'. Little did I know at the time, but the rosary was as close to a religious vibe this affair was gonna get. I knelt and offered a prayer for the repose of his soul. After greeting a smiling but teary-eyed Sandy and getting my black pin-striped suit covered with her glittery fairy dust, she introduced me to the family members seated on the periphery. There was her step-daughter Dawn with a perfectly cut bob looking drawn and tired but who managed to stand and hug me, her step-son, Larry Jr., and her oldest daughter Brittany who after hearing my name smiled, greeted me with a hug and thanked me for coming.
The 3 of us took seats right behind the family, largely due to Milan's need for space to angle her crutches/booted foot and partly so I could do what I do. Y'all know. More co-workers and friends came/greeted/sat/chatted. Earth Wind and Fire played, Milan/Kim/I caught up with each other and other arrivees. It was so hot by this time, I was starting to sweat in places that I normally never would and poor Milan was starting to look like Whitney Houston after a 2 hour performance, complete with the sweaty upper lip.I made mention of the fact that the atmosphere was absolutely not funereal and that if there were drinks involved it would actually border on festive. The girls agreed and we greeted/sweated/chatted some more. Sandy's oldest son, Christoper appeared with his young niece & nephew. She'd told me when I asked about him that he was "downstairs with the kids." He looked sad and out of place, leaning against a wall, almost aloof. I was always used to seeing his huge grin, identical to his mom's but when I tried to get his attention and wave hello, he never looked up. I pointed him out to Milan since Sandy was so very proud of his accomplishments - he's in med school - saying maybe she'd finally get to meet him. Brittany's youngest, who appeared to be 1-ish was giving her dad (?) a work out, squirming out of his grasp repeatedly as though it were a game. I saw a few faces I hadn't seen in a while and used the opportunity to catch up with them.
6:15pm:I'd noticed in the small foyer where we signed in a photo collage and as I'm always intrigued by photos of people living their lives I asked the girls if they wanted go check 'em out with me. There was Sandy & Larry back in the '80's - the hair/clothes a dead giveaway, the kids at various ages, Larry at work with one of his oil delivery trucks, at Christmastime, with his brothers - none of whom were well enough to travel to his wake - and so on. I pulled a passing Sandy over for clarification on some of the photos and she called her other step-daughter, Renee over, introduced us and told us she'd put the whole display together. Although she said she felt she hadn't done the project justice it was obvious she'd put a lot of thought and love into every bit of it - from the model-sized etching of his first oil truck, to a miniature sailboat "he loved to fish"; and tree/shrubbery symbolizing his love of outdoors/landscaping. I was impressed and as a big 'ol daddy's girl myself, was almost misty-eyed by her commitment to his memory.
6:30pm: I saw a woman that looked familiar sitting alone with a cane by the doorway. I asked a mutual associate of Sandy's who she was and she told me it was Julie - Sandy's BFF whom I hadn't seen since my second Maxwell concert back in 2001 (I keep ALL ticket stubs). As I approached her she broke out in a grin saying "Hey Willette!". Still very pretty, she'd gained weight to the point that I didn't recognize her. It was great seeing her and we covered 10 years in about 15 minutes. Two of Sandy's grands had come back upstairs and were frolicking in the open area in front of the casket. The little boy, dressed in a grey vest and matching long pants with a fresh, nearly shaved head climbed up onto the edge of the coffin and had one leg in before Julie called out to him to stop and Larry Jr. grabbed him. I'd noticed an older white woman with too much makeup and hair-gone-wild, sitting with Larry's first set of kids. I'd wondered to Milan if that was Larry's first wife. Julie confirmed that it was. Sandy joined us and I confessed to them that Larry looked more alive than #1 wife...I asked Sandy if she knew when or if she'd be coming back to work - she just shook her head and said, "I don't know Willie - I've got a lot of stuff to take care of." I can only imagine.
6:55pm: I looked over the room from Julie's perch and saw what I sensed - the great divide - and Sandy's original family (mom/sibilings) watching her created family but no interaction between the two. I didn't see Kim and Milan or my pocketbook so I figured they must be ready to roll out and their disappearance was my cue. One can't take liberties with other people's time or wheels.
I pray that Sandy makes it through this latest chapter of her never-a-dull-minute life. She once told me that she was going to write her autobiography and title it: "House Nigger No More". I was never quite sure if she was serious about the title or not - she seemed to walk the color-line in her marriage and outside of it quite nimbly. Especially for someone from our tail end of jim crow/brink of civil rights era. Ours is the generation of cautious hope that we can transcend all of the racial crap. We've benefited from all of the dogs/waterhosing/lynching/marching/beatings in ways that our children and grandchildren, nieces and nephews will never comprehend or probably care about. But we know.
Sandy loved and took care of that old man almost up to his 72nd birthday.
Last week was my birthday and although I haven't seen or spoken to Sandy since the wake she showed up at the job to drop off a gift for me. My heart was blessed to know that in her time of grieving she thought of me. My natural sisters didn't even check for me on my birthday. It's all good though - I've got a BUNCH of "sisters" - everywhere I turn.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Thursday, August 19, 2010
"Big Daddy/Hawk"
I've been trying to remember exactly when I first met "Professor" William Stefon Hawkins. It seems to me he's always sung with us (Kergyma - 'ker-gee-ma' - Community Choir) he's always been the same age and he's always had a head full of hair. I know none of this is true - but it is what it seems and for me, so it is. Stef's a funny, bright, whip-smart, fashionably avant garde musician, singer, director and all around renaissance 27 year-old man who got my portion of gifts and talents along with yours. Don't believe me? Watch him work with any one of the 4, 5, 6 - I've lost count - choirs/groups he sings/plays for/works with for half an hour and tell me otherwise. If you believe in auras, his would be a kaleidoscopic prism, undefinable by one particular color or pattern. His unequivocal love of the Lord and God's obvious anointing on him makes for the good cake mix that is Stefon. He gets it: delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart. He's working the Word and reaping the benefits.
Stef got one-two'd by life last week in the early morning hours when his dad was found dead in his home. His father's only living child, he was about to get a crash course in responsibility with an annex class on grief. The tests that no body can take for you. No cheating allowed...
William Henry Hawkins, Jr.
Sunrise, November 18, 1947 - Sunset, August 10, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Hamden, CT
10:50am - I arrive at Bible Gospel Center Church in Hamden on the epitome of a perfect, summer's morning. Not a cloud in the cornflower blue sky. Windows down, sunroof back, enjoying the breeze I wave at Howard Hill and make a k-turn to grab a parking space on Leeder Hill Dr. directly across from the church. Although I'd love to stay and help out in any way I can, I've got 2 appointments I couldn't reschedule at work so getting caught up in the parking lot afterwards isn't in the game plan. I give my "howdy-do's" to the funeral home staff and enter the vestibule behind a group of other women. We sign the guestbook and are greeted by one of Kergyma's founders, AJ. He admires the huge, silk, hot pink bloomed rose I have pinned on my black sheath in accordance with dress protocol ("black & white with a splash of color!") and directs me to another choir member for my monetary donation for Stef. I'm told that those of us who are singing are to sit in the front of the sanctuary across from the pulpit. Since there was nobody there yet I opted for a seat along the wall in the absolute back of the church. Bible Gospel Center is in a large industrial building and although I've been here for musicals, a wedding, a memorial service and now a funeral, I'm really not sure just how much space it truly occupies. A few years ago the pastor of the church, Rev. John Goode died and now his wife is carrying the mantel. The chairs are wide, padded and comfy and just as I felt a nod coming on one of Bible Gospel Center's favorite sons, Norman "BooBoo" Thomas greeted me and told me if I was singing I could go up front.
11:05 - A group of us Kergymians filled up some seats across from the closed, flag-draped casket and watched the assembling crowd watch us watch them."Tomorrow" by the Winans played softly in the background over and over again. In fact, it had been playing since I arrived. I ask Tory if it was Mr. Hawkins' favorite song or something. I've made the song selections for my homegoing service well known: every version of "I'll fly away" you can find and just run it. Hey, ya like what ya like...
11:15 - More singers take their seats and more people fill the sanctuary but the family still hasn't arrived. My prayer for Stef and his family these past few days have been for peace among them and favor with those who could help smooth this whole funeral planning process out for him. I'd been told that he had a difficult time locating his dad's paperwork and it was adding to an already stressful situation. Readers, please let this be an important life lesson: whether you live in a household of 10 people or are a borderline hermit like me, do everyone a big solid and put all your important papers (insurance policies, medications, dr.'s, bank info, etc.) in ONE place, preferrably somewhere fire /water proof. Thank yew...
11:21 - The family has arrived and the processional begins. Stefon's pastor, John Cotton is the officiant and he leads the way with Rev. Dawna Thomas - Norman's statuesque wife, head and shoulders above him - at his side. The tastefully printed programs arrive simultaneously and I'm torn between pouring over mines and watching the processional. Wisely, I choose the processional since I don't know anyone in Stef's family other than his big sister Jackie and her two children Marcus and Jasmine. Stefon, sporting a short-waisted, tweed Windsor jacket, a co-ordinating Kangol, skinny black slacks and his trademark oversize bowtie and cornrows, is escorting his mom and Jasmine, poor dear, is almost doubled over in grief. All total, they take up the first 3 rows of seating and Cotton stays right on task asking that the hymn, "Draw Me Nearer" be sung. Boom, Kergyma's original Musical Director and friend to the room, is on the Hammond and starts the melody. Nobody's singing. He plays another bar - crickets. Tory announces to those of us within earshot: "we should be singing." Boom plays another bar, maybe 2. I don't know and I don't know this song. I didn't grow up in any particular church and trust me, after attending the grand old COGIC for nigh unto 20 years of my adult life, that was NOT a song we EVER sung on a Sunday morning. I told Tory I could lip synch as I picked up the hymnal from underneath the chair in front of me and flipped to the index. Tory does the same and soon everyone down the row is following suit. It's comforting to know that no one else knew the song either. She and Erica Wilkins, both strong sopranos, find the song first and pick it up wherever Boom's at. True to my word, I lip synch until we reach the chorus and actually add a little volume. Thank God there are no mics in the vacinity to pick up this boiling hot mess. I refuse to look at either Stefon or Cotton, my shame ever before me. This is not a sweet, sweet sound to the Lord's ears. Or mine.
11:30 - The invocation is given, the Old and New Testament readings offered and Kergyma, one of the many musical ministries Stef labors with (and I don't use that word loosely)is called on for the first musical selection. About 15 or so current and former members crowd the pulpit. Gathered around 3 mics we get the celebration of a life lived started with Stefon's own revamping of the old standard, "Jesus is Mine." It's always a crowd pleaser and we always enjoy singing it. It always tickles me to see people's reaction to that song when first hearing it - like "is it really o.k. to bop my head, and groove like this in church???" Yessir, and it's fun ain't it?!?
11:45 - Those who've been asked to give reflections are called. This is always key for me, especially if I'm not familiar with the deceased since it gives me more insight to what kind of person they were. The first fellow wasa cousin or nephew and spoke of how his uncle was always ready with advice and supported his move to New Haven from Bridgeport. He remarked that Mr. Hawkins would come to his home for dinner on a weeknight only to find that his wife had prepared not one but "two meats - on a weekday!" telling him that she was a "scratch-off boy! don't let her get away!" The next young man was also a relative and was so overwhelmed he nor we thought he'd make it through his reflections. A female relative came to offer support and he was able to tearfully press his way. Another fellow followed and he, too, broke down. Mr. Hawkins was a veteran and had retired from the V.A. hospital after 20 years. So did my mom - wonder if they knew each other? His comrades from the local VFW post were in attendance and the commander, an elderly gent, his crisp, multi-emblemed Class A hat jauntily perched on his head, strode to the podium to represent them. He stated that "Hawk was a night owl" (love the play on words!) and he had a habit of showing up at the post right near closing time. Of course the commander would be compelled to keep the establishment open in order to accomodate Hawk and he'd end up shutting it down sometimes at 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning. And that was that. Mr. Hawkins' Pastor, Kennedy Hampton of Shiloh Baptist in New Haven was the last to be called upon to have remarks. Him was absent.
Gospel Mission's Choir, another of Stef's "babies" was up next to minister. Stefon takes over on the Hammond. AJ thought it would be a good idea if we all went up to sing the James Hall classic, "No Joy, No Strength" with them. "C'mon, y'all know it, right?" Nooooooope. Tory and I remain planted as do a few others. My motto - let the young run. Tory said her feet hurt. Come to think of it, mine did too.
12:00pm - Cards and expressions of sympathy were read along with the obituary/"Scroll of Life". "William will be best remembered by his love for life..."Hawk" would never leave home without being "dressed to impress!" He was always the life of the party and did not mind letting you know he was in the room. William was a generous man." Sounds like Stefon is a chip off the old block....God's Gift, yet another group Stefon sings with prepares to minister. The quartet of young women which includes his niece Jasmine and Stefon on lead synchronize, harmonize, angelicize us with "Great is the Lord." Just beautiful. Pastor Cotton invokes us to worship as they finish and before introducing the Euologist - Reverend Dawna Thomas. This is a treat for me since I'd never heard her preach and I'm all about girl power!
12:27 - Norman sings - I'm sorry, styles the sermonic solo, "Just a prayer away", a capella as he is known to do. Why I didn't record it is anyone's guess...Killed it.
Rev. Thomas is a stunning woman with fine, chiseled features, cheekbones to die for and a perfect smile. Her voice matches her. Elegant and confident but with a calming undertone. Nothing about her says brash or overbearing. She puts me in mind of a favorite teacher - the one who you just knew you were her pet - except everyone else thought they were too! She starts by drawing an analogy between her scripture (John 14:1-6 "Thomas said to Him, 'Lord, we do not know where You are going, and how can we know the way? Jesus said to him, 'I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.'") and man's natural inclination to NOT ask for directions when clearly lost. It's real simple: Jesus is THE way. The ONLY way. In 13 minutes she put the gospel message DOWN and gave it feet.
12:40: Stefon is summoned for his remarks and although composed, he seems nervous at first. It is a daunting task. He notes that he didn't think he'd be in "this" position so soon in his life. My heart breaks for him. He acknowledges his mom's presence, help and friendship to his Dad, "who ain't even her man!" She shies away from the attention. That's what's up - just 'cause two folks don't make it in the romance realm, there's no reason why they can't remain friends - especially when there are children involved. I mean unless of course somebody's just a flat out jerk. It's obvious the influence his dad had on his life - and how he'd prepared him for life with out him. He said he wasn't sure at one point if he'd have to postpone the funeral. But God. He said he'd attended a concert on Monday night and praised God for all he was worth. A sacrificial praise. On Tuesday everything fell into place. That's what was called for in this time of loss - to wear the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness. He admonished us to do the same. Boom and Aaron were on top of it. He ran down off the pulpit to grab one of his aunties from the first row, spoke a Word of healing to her and told her to offer God her praise. Caught a bit off guard, she complied nonetheless before returning to her seat. Another auntie jumped up, shoes flung off, bandaged toe no longer an issue I'd guess and tried to get 1st auntie to join her in a shout. 1st auntie looked at her like she had 2 heads. Did. Not. Budge.
12:50 - Pastor Cotton gives a closing prayer and thankfully includes a call to salvation. So many times this is left out at funerals but for me it's as good a time as any to make that move. Shoot...You could be next. My head was really bowed and my eyes were really closed so I really didn't see who or how many raised their hands in response to the ultimate invitation. All I needed to know was that it was a good day for the Kingdom.
Howard Hill's personnel take over, minus Howard. Guess you can't be everywhere. However, his more than capable staff hold it down, unfurling their now standard gift of a tapestry with the deceased's likeness printed on it. It garners the appropriate "oohs and ahhs" and he majestically draped it over Stefon's back. He wept. We wept.
1:00 - Back outside on this glorious day, I slowly make my way through the crowd towards the sidewalk. Jackie, always a classy chick, is coming back into the church, looking for her son who'd been on the drums. I take the opportunity to grab a hug from her. She tells me she loves my recently chopped down hair - I tell her I love her funky mohawk. I remember now that it was through her that I met Stefon - her baby brother - back when she used to sing with us. I know he'll grieve and he should. But he's got one of the best big sister's there is watching his back. Trust - that's what God created us to do.
Stef got one-two'd by life last week in the early morning hours when his dad was found dead in his home. His father's only living child, he was about to get a crash course in responsibility with an annex class on grief. The tests that no body can take for you. No cheating allowed...
William Henry Hawkins, Jr.
Sunrise, November 18, 1947 - Sunset, August 10, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Hamden, CT
10:50am - I arrive at Bible Gospel Center Church in Hamden on the epitome of a perfect, summer's morning. Not a cloud in the cornflower blue sky. Windows down, sunroof back, enjoying the breeze I wave at Howard Hill and make a k-turn to grab a parking space on Leeder Hill Dr. directly across from the church. Although I'd love to stay and help out in any way I can, I've got 2 appointments I couldn't reschedule at work so getting caught up in the parking lot afterwards isn't in the game plan. I give my "howdy-do's" to the funeral home staff and enter the vestibule behind a group of other women. We sign the guestbook and are greeted by one of Kergyma's founders, AJ. He admires the huge, silk, hot pink bloomed rose I have pinned on my black sheath in accordance with dress protocol ("black & white with a splash of color!") and directs me to another choir member for my monetary donation for Stef. I'm told that those of us who are singing are to sit in the front of the sanctuary across from the pulpit. Since there was nobody there yet I opted for a seat along the wall in the absolute back of the church. Bible Gospel Center is in a large industrial building and although I've been here for musicals, a wedding, a memorial service and now a funeral, I'm really not sure just how much space it truly occupies. A few years ago the pastor of the church, Rev. John Goode died and now his wife is carrying the mantel. The chairs are wide, padded and comfy and just as I felt a nod coming on one of Bible Gospel Center's favorite sons, Norman "BooBoo" Thomas greeted me and told me if I was singing I could go up front.
11:05 - A group of us Kergymians filled up some seats across from the closed, flag-draped casket and watched the assembling crowd watch us watch them."Tomorrow" by the Winans played softly in the background over and over again. In fact, it had been playing since I arrived. I ask Tory if it was Mr. Hawkins' favorite song or something. I've made the song selections for my homegoing service well known: every version of "I'll fly away" you can find and just run it. Hey, ya like what ya like...
11:15 - More singers take their seats and more people fill the sanctuary but the family still hasn't arrived. My prayer for Stef and his family these past few days have been for peace among them and favor with those who could help smooth this whole funeral planning process out for him. I'd been told that he had a difficult time locating his dad's paperwork and it was adding to an already stressful situation. Readers, please let this be an important life lesson: whether you live in a household of 10 people or are a borderline hermit like me, do everyone a big solid and put all your important papers (insurance policies, medications, dr.'s, bank info, etc.) in ONE place, preferrably somewhere fire /water proof. Thank yew...
11:21 - The family has arrived and the processional begins. Stefon's pastor, John Cotton is the officiant and he leads the way with Rev. Dawna Thomas - Norman's statuesque wife, head and shoulders above him - at his side. The tastefully printed programs arrive simultaneously and I'm torn between pouring over mines and watching the processional. Wisely, I choose the processional since I don't know anyone in Stef's family other than his big sister Jackie and her two children Marcus and Jasmine. Stefon, sporting a short-waisted, tweed Windsor jacket, a co-ordinating Kangol, skinny black slacks and his trademark oversize bowtie and cornrows, is escorting his mom and Jasmine, poor dear, is almost doubled over in grief. All total, they take up the first 3 rows of seating and Cotton stays right on task asking that the hymn, "Draw Me Nearer" be sung. Boom, Kergyma's original Musical Director and friend to the room, is on the Hammond and starts the melody. Nobody's singing. He plays another bar - crickets. Tory announces to those of us within earshot: "we should be singing." Boom plays another bar, maybe 2. I don't know and I don't know this song. I didn't grow up in any particular church and trust me, after attending the grand old COGIC for nigh unto 20 years of my adult life, that was NOT a song we EVER sung on a Sunday morning. I told Tory I could lip synch as I picked up the hymnal from underneath the chair in front of me and flipped to the index. Tory does the same and soon everyone down the row is following suit. It's comforting to know that no one else knew the song either. She and Erica Wilkins, both strong sopranos, find the song first and pick it up wherever Boom's at. True to my word, I lip synch until we reach the chorus and actually add a little volume. Thank God there are no mics in the vacinity to pick up this boiling hot mess. I refuse to look at either Stefon or Cotton, my shame ever before me. This is not a sweet, sweet sound to the Lord's ears. Or mine.
11:30 - The invocation is given, the Old and New Testament readings offered and Kergyma, one of the many musical ministries Stef labors with (and I don't use that word loosely)is called on for the first musical selection. About 15 or so current and former members crowd the pulpit. Gathered around 3 mics we get the celebration of a life lived started with Stefon's own revamping of the old standard, "Jesus is Mine." It's always a crowd pleaser and we always enjoy singing it. It always tickles me to see people's reaction to that song when first hearing it - like "is it really o.k. to bop my head, and groove like this in church???" Yessir, and it's fun ain't it?!?
11:45 - Those who've been asked to give reflections are called. This is always key for me, especially if I'm not familiar with the deceased since it gives me more insight to what kind of person they were. The first fellow wasa cousin or nephew and spoke of how his uncle was always ready with advice and supported his move to New Haven from Bridgeport. He remarked that Mr. Hawkins would come to his home for dinner on a weeknight only to find that his wife had prepared not one but "two meats - on a weekday!" telling him that she was a "scratch-off boy! don't let her get away!" The next young man was also a relative and was so overwhelmed he nor we thought he'd make it through his reflections. A female relative came to offer support and he was able to tearfully press his way. Another fellow followed and he, too, broke down. Mr. Hawkins was a veteran and had retired from the V.A. hospital after 20 years. So did my mom - wonder if they knew each other? His comrades from the local VFW post were in attendance and the commander, an elderly gent, his crisp, multi-emblemed Class A hat jauntily perched on his head, strode to the podium to represent them. He stated that "Hawk was a night owl" (love the play on words!) and he had a habit of showing up at the post right near closing time. Of course the commander would be compelled to keep the establishment open in order to accomodate Hawk and he'd end up shutting it down sometimes at 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning. And that was that. Mr. Hawkins' Pastor, Kennedy Hampton of Shiloh Baptist in New Haven was the last to be called upon to have remarks. Him was absent.
Gospel Mission's Choir, another of Stef's "babies" was up next to minister. Stefon takes over on the Hammond. AJ thought it would be a good idea if we all went up to sing the James Hall classic, "No Joy, No Strength" with them. "C'mon, y'all know it, right?" Nooooooope. Tory and I remain planted as do a few others. My motto - let the young run. Tory said her feet hurt. Come to think of it, mine did too.
12:00pm - Cards and expressions of sympathy were read along with the obituary/"Scroll of Life". "William will be best remembered by his love for life..."Hawk" would never leave home without being "dressed to impress!" He was always the life of the party and did not mind letting you know he was in the room. William was a generous man." Sounds like Stefon is a chip off the old block....God's Gift, yet another group Stefon sings with prepares to minister. The quartet of young women which includes his niece Jasmine and Stefon on lead synchronize, harmonize, angelicize us with "Great is the Lord." Just beautiful. Pastor Cotton invokes us to worship as they finish and before introducing the Euologist - Reverend Dawna Thomas. This is a treat for me since I'd never heard her preach and I'm all about girl power!
12:27 - Norman sings - I'm sorry, styles the sermonic solo, "Just a prayer away", a capella as he is known to do. Why I didn't record it is anyone's guess...Killed it.
Rev. Thomas is a stunning woman with fine, chiseled features, cheekbones to die for and a perfect smile. Her voice matches her. Elegant and confident but with a calming undertone. Nothing about her says brash or overbearing. She puts me in mind of a favorite teacher - the one who you just knew you were her pet - except everyone else thought they were too! She starts by drawing an analogy between her scripture (John 14:1-6 "Thomas said to Him, 'Lord, we do not know where You are going, and how can we know the way? Jesus said to him, 'I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.'") and man's natural inclination to NOT ask for directions when clearly lost. It's real simple: Jesus is THE way. The ONLY way. In 13 minutes she put the gospel message DOWN and gave it feet.
12:40: Stefon is summoned for his remarks and although composed, he seems nervous at first. It is a daunting task. He notes that he didn't think he'd be in "this" position so soon in his life. My heart breaks for him. He acknowledges his mom's presence, help and friendship to his Dad, "who ain't even her man!" She shies away from the attention. That's what's up - just 'cause two folks don't make it in the romance realm, there's no reason why they can't remain friends - especially when there are children involved. I mean unless of course somebody's just a flat out jerk. It's obvious the influence his dad had on his life - and how he'd prepared him for life with out him. He said he wasn't sure at one point if he'd have to postpone the funeral. But God. He said he'd attended a concert on Monday night and praised God for all he was worth. A sacrificial praise. On Tuesday everything fell into place. That's what was called for in this time of loss - to wear the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness. He admonished us to do the same. Boom and Aaron were on top of it. He ran down off the pulpit to grab one of his aunties from the first row, spoke a Word of healing to her and told her to offer God her praise. Caught a bit off guard, she complied nonetheless before returning to her seat. Another auntie jumped up, shoes flung off, bandaged toe no longer an issue I'd guess and tried to get 1st auntie to join her in a shout. 1st auntie looked at her like she had 2 heads. Did. Not. Budge.
12:50 - Pastor Cotton gives a closing prayer and thankfully includes a call to salvation. So many times this is left out at funerals but for me it's as good a time as any to make that move. Shoot...You could be next. My head was really bowed and my eyes were really closed so I really didn't see who or how many raised their hands in response to the ultimate invitation. All I needed to know was that it was a good day for the Kingdom.
Howard Hill's personnel take over, minus Howard. Guess you can't be everywhere. However, his more than capable staff hold it down, unfurling their now standard gift of a tapestry with the deceased's likeness printed on it. It garners the appropriate "oohs and ahhs" and he majestically draped it over Stefon's back. He wept. We wept.
1:00 - Back outside on this glorious day, I slowly make my way through the crowd towards the sidewalk. Jackie, always a classy chick, is coming back into the church, looking for her son who'd been on the drums. I take the opportunity to grab a hug from her. She tells me she loves my recently chopped down hair - I tell her I love her funky mohawk. I remember now that it was through her that I met Stefon - her baby brother - back when she used to sing with us. I know he'll grieve and he should. But he's got one of the best big sister's there is watching his back. Trust - that's what God created us to do.
Monday, June 28, 2010
"I'm 2 Lights Away!"
O.k., I've got to give you the six degrees of separaton on this one. As frequent readers of my funeral blogs well know, I don't have to be acquainted with the deceased to attend their funeral. That being the case, my friend Natasha is cooler than a cooler with me and in turn her super sweet, pretty and smart daughter Ashley is too. "Chante" (don't know why - but that's just what I call Natasha) and I met several years ago at a job-related conference and after a very public head-butting we agreed to disagree. After running into one another a few more times we developed a very natural and easy rapport and I now count her among my nearest and dearest. I met a 16-ish Ash when Chante was being honored at a black-tie affair. She was her mom's escort and as Chante put it in her acceptance speech, her "God-send" who held it down on the homefront when her job called for late hours and travel.
Recently, a grown up Ashley worked with me at one of the sites I supervised for my hustle. Unbeknownst to me when I saw her, she was pregnant and I didn't figure it out until it was time for her baby shower! These youngun's and their baggy clothes...
On a hot, sticky Saturday night, Ashley's most adorable baby's daddy caught a coupla hot ones. Let's go to the funeral, shall we?
Lester M. McClease, Jr. (BAM)
Sunrise June12, 1982 - Sunset June 5, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
New Haven, CT
11a.m.: It's a partly cloudy, cool-ish June morning as I find a park behind the Elks Club on Dixwell Avenue. Unashamedly I invoked my right to use my mama's handicapped sticker with the rationale that ain't no body got no business being handicapped and going to a bar this time of the morning. I picked my way through the parking lot to the Morningstar Deliverance Church, a one-story white structure with lavendar trim which fronts Dixwell. Years ago whilst in high school, it was a newly built, state-of-the-art record store - that's right, I said record - owned by Jerry & Renee Greene's dad, Mr. Greene. Trust me when I tell you, back 'round 1975 it was the hotness! But then, New Haven was a pretty cool spot too. Anyhoo, fast forward 35 years and not unlike most mid-to-large urban cities, the City of Elms has lots of issues, not the least of which is the out of control black male shooting deaths. More on that in a bit.
McClam and Son(s) has the funeral, convenient - since they're like, a block away from the church. They could've left the limos in the lot and carried the casket down - I'm sorry, let me stop myself. Entering the church there's a gang of people hanging about in various stages of grieving. I pass a big'un weeping uncontrollably as someone tried in vain to console her. "Geez", I think to myself, "I haven't been to a crying/falling out funeral in a minute", go in, sign the guestbook and get at the end of the short viewing line. He's laid out in a beautiful ebony casket with a red caranationed 'BAM' spelled out on a diagnol, and a carnationed heart and matching cross anchoring the left and right of the bier. I read the banners streaming from the arrangements and paused when I read the one from his "loving wife"??? There was a cute picture of him and lil' Lester, I mean "Lil BAM", over another arrangement and a banner from Ashley. So Ashley's NOT the "wife", right? I'm just trying to make sure I've got everything straight. Dang, I haven't even sat down yet and my eggs are already getting scrambled. He looked like he'd been dead for a while. He was shot in the leg and head in, oh never mind - read the blurb from the local rag for yourself:
"By James Tinley, Register Staff
jtinley@newhavenregister.com
The West Haven man charged with manslaughter after another resident was killed Saturday night may claim the shooting was in self-defense, his attorney said Monday during his arraignment.
Joseph Vreeland, 19, told police he shot Lester "Bamboo" McClease during a struggle over a gun McClease pulled out during a drug deal gone wrong in a car in West Haven, according to a police report made public Monday."
So, he looks like what he is - dead for a minute. He was killed almost 2 weeks ago, after the state medical examiner got through with him and McClam did his thing and wait, is that a patched bullet hole in this kid's forehead? Make that a badly patched bullet hole. Oh damn - this has just officially become surreal and again, I haven't even found a seat yet. His long, thick dreds were neatly pulled up and back, rocking a casual off-white button down, probably True Religion, Black Label, LRG or whatever gear kids are wearing now, his hands swollen and waxen allllllmost folded over his girth. I prayed his soul would find rest with God and since I'd never been to a funeral for a young shooting victim I decided on my usual spot near the back on the end of the pew in case I needed to make a quick exit. The sanctuary being a decent size was beginning to fill in quickly with friends/acquaintances/associates/duns/dudes/boys/crew - "or whateva niggas are calling themselves these days" - to quote A Pimp Named Slickback. A crack-ish looking young woman wearing black hot pants, a black t shirt and a red knit hat pulled down over two weaved pony tails meandered back and forth looking for God only knows what. Money? That Shizzle?? The rest of her butt???
11:15am: The funeral procession comes in with Rev. Scott Marks, a self-anointed local activist leading the way. The trail of "family" is pretty long - somewhere in the middle I spot Ash and Chante. Ash has on a blouse and slacks, her hair to her shoulders and the baby-weight gone. Chante is wearing a sleek black dress, tall and model thin. Once everyone's settled in the pastor of Morningstar, Bishop Vincent Smith takes the podium and tries to get something started with the Vicki Winans version of "How I got over" on c.d. Two things: I just hate that song and the c.d. was skipping. All bad. In a church full of what most certainly were un-churched people, the "praise party starter" song fell as flat as - well, a fart in church. Smith kept up with the "C'mon let's give Him some praise! Say Amen! Say Hallelujah!" patter until it became obvious that this would be a tough room, gave up and moved on. The old and new Testaments were read by a middle-aged woman and a Minister Victor Smith was introduced for remarks. I think his name was Victor Smith, but since Bishop Vincent Smith has had a perpetual frog in his throat ever since I've known him he could've been saying Vincent Smith. Anyway, we'll just call him Rev. Smith. He had a slight West Indies accent and gave remarks of how he led young BAM to the Lord at about age 12 but had lost contact with him as he grew older.
11:30am: The acknowledgements and obituary were read (nobody but family got a copy I noticed) and sidenote: the obituary that was printed in the aforementioned local paper had nothing about a "loving wife" but the one now being read did. Hmmmm. The call was made for remarks/remembrances from family/friends/associates/crew etc. and the now standard admonishment to keep it at "2 minutes" - which hardly anyone ever adheres to. A young man dressed in jeans/T-shirt popped up and got straight to the point, saying he hadn't known BAM that long but found him to be a good guy who was always helping people and would do anything for you except he was never where he was supposed to be when he said he would be. His standard response to the oft asked, "Where you at?" was "I'm 2 lights away!" Many of the gathered laughed in recognition of the familiar answer. The young man's reflections and comments were genuine and, under 2 minutes. A gentleman who said his son was a friend of BAM's gave fatherly remarks. A tearful young woman said BAM was her "baby daddy's" good friend and how he'd bring her baby pampers. A neatly dressed young man boldly stepped to the mic and passionately made the following observation: "I see many of you here today are wearing buttons and t-shirts with BAM's picture on it - and that's nice. But how much more of an impact do you think it would have made on his life if when he was struggling in his lifestyle and trying to find a job and do better if when he stepped out of his house he saw all of you standing outside with the t-shirts and buttons with his face on it? You talk about 'riding' for BAM - what if you had lived and LOVED for him?" Point made and taken. I feel convicted and I didn't even know the boy. Many of us stood and applauded him as he made his way back to his seat. Rev. Smith is back and oddly he goes the militant route pointing out how BAM's shooter, a white fellow, has only been charged with manslaughter and has a $250,000 bond. How if "it was a black man who killed a white man he'd be charged with murder and have a $3 million dollar bond!!" Some in the crowd ate that up too - I personally thought it was in poor taste not to mention an unnecessary roiling of a crowd where some of them may be pre-disposed to violence and/or revenge. Bishop Smith in his remarks wisely attempts to put a positive spin on things by piggybacking off of the young man who besought us to "live and love for BAM". Except it didn't have nearly the impact. Let me just pause here and make a point within my perceptions to any who may be contemplating or are in ministry. Un-churched people (or "heathens" as they used to be more commonly known) can smell con, game, phony-ness a mile away. You will be much more effective in your witnessing to them if you JUST KEEP IT REAL. That means no coattail/jock riding, no plagiarizing other preachers (especially someone from t.v. - just cause somebody doesn't go to church regularly doesn't mean they may not be catching some T.D. Jakes or Creflo on cable...) and no testi-lying!! Ya got that?? Now, where was I...
!2:00pm: Bishop Smith announces that after the next song, the next voice we'd hear would be that of Rev. Scott Marks. And then the smooth, mellow sounds of Smokey Robinson drifted from the church's speakers. I was like, "wait a minute (in the Homer Simpson voice) - is that the song Smoke sang at Melvin Williams' funeral in 'The Temptations' movie?!?" Oh yes, it is. A young woman in a pew near the front of the church started sobbing, I looked around and many of the young men sat slumped forward with their heads down - the cool dude's way of crying but not really crying so you can't see them crying. Then a version of "Precious Lord" was played that I'd never heard. It sounded - Baptist-y - and a whole lot of people just got up and started walking back and forth. I can only guess they were going outside since this is a one-way in/one-way out church and the ushers had blocked off the side aisle closest to me for the videographer. People were walking up and down the center aisle so much I thought it was a runway or perhaps something really good was being given away outside! I saw Ash go by with the baby - understandable, he may need changing although he wasn't fretting.
12:15pm: Once the song was over and Marks took the podium he did ask that everyone take their seats. Good, then it wasn't just me that was being made dizzy by all of the back and forthness. I was starting to feel like I was at a Moroccan street bazaar where the only things missing were goats and snake charmers...Marks asked everybody to get up from their seats and go hug somebody you didn't know as he loudly proclaimed "He IS Lord!!" into the microphone. No problem since I didn't know a soul sitting anywhere near me unless you want to count the girl and her little one who sat next to me and offered me an IceBreaker breath mint, which I gladly accepted. I've sung at this church a couple of times and the sound system isn't that great so couple that with a guy who's a bit of a megaphone mouth and you've got some pretty bad surround sound. My ears started ringing and itching. Thank God I wasn't sitting right under a speaker. He takes his scripture from Romans 6 - I didn't hear what verse (I can't imagine why not) but it really doesn't matter since all I heard was him going on and on about his life experiences, his growing up, his dad's parenting skills, the old Fair Haven neighborhood he grew up in, the kid who always got him in trouble, etc. He did reference the "3 stages of death - the natural death, the spiritual death and the eternal death" which I didn't get or care about since I was good and bored by then. He started to expound on his theory but didn't take long to get sidetracked with another self-reference. Bottomline: Dude was all OVER the place. I get it that he was trying to grab/relate to the crowd but also bring a sense of spirituality to the eulogy but what was really needed was some focus and since I had to go back to work, I couldn't wait him out to see if it was forthcoming. After a about a 1/2 an hour of his verbal wandering back and forthness and me getting absoutely no sense that he'd be "bringin' it home" anytime soon (I mean how do you end a rambling eulogy?: "And then I found $5"???) I decided to roll out.
12:45pm: If I had the cure for drug/alcohol addiction I'd be Bill Gates/Oprah/Warren Buffet/one of those Saudi Sheiks all put together rich - for about 15 minutes before "they" put a hit out on me. "They" meaning the forces/entities/people who have made sub abuse counseling/rehabbing, pharmaceutical companies, drug lords, advertising agencies, General Motors and Mercedes Benz,street level drug dealers, DEA, ATF, the latest "Drug Czar", gun and tiny cellophane bag manufacturers, et al a living for so many years. Would it be worth it to get these young men to stop killing each other? This is very sad to me. I'm 51 and there's been a dearth of decent, working, normal, date-able men in my generation for YEARS. What will Ashley and the young women of her generation have to choose from if they keep killing one another in "wars" over what? A CORNER?
"Because you know if money was nothing, if there was no money and everything depended on your moral standards and the way you behaved and the way you treated people, we'd be millionaires. We'd be rich." Lesane Parish Crooks, aka Tupac Shakur.
Recently, a grown up Ashley worked with me at one of the sites I supervised for my hustle. Unbeknownst to me when I saw her, she was pregnant and I didn't figure it out until it was time for her baby shower! These youngun's and their baggy clothes...
On a hot, sticky Saturday night, Ashley's most adorable baby's daddy caught a coupla hot ones. Let's go to the funeral, shall we?
Lester M. McClease, Jr. (BAM)
Sunrise June12, 1982 - Sunset June 5, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
New Haven, CT
11a.m.: It's a partly cloudy, cool-ish June morning as I find a park behind the Elks Club on Dixwell Avenue. Unashamedly I invoked my right to use my mama's handicapped sticker with the rationale that ain't no body got no business being handicapped and going to a bar this time of the morning. I picked my way through the parking lot to the Morningstar Deliverance Church, a one-story white structure with lavendar trim which fronts Dixwell. Years ago whilst in high school, it was a newly built, state-of-the-art record store - that's right, I said record - owned by Jerry & Renee Greene's dad, Mr. Greene. Trust me when I tell you, back 'round 1975 it was the hotness! But then, New Haven was a pretty cool spot too. Anyhoo, fast forward 35 years and not unlike most mid-to-large urban cities, the City of Elms has lots of issues, not the least of which is the out of control black male shooting deaths. More on that in a bit.
McClam and Son(s) has the funeral, convenient - since they're like, a block away from the church. They could've left the limos in the lot and carried the casket down - I'm sorry, let me stop myself. Entering the church there's a gang of people hanging about in various stages of grieving. I pass a big'un weeping uncontrollably as someone tried in vain to console her. "Geez", I think to myself, "I haven't been to a crying/falling out funeral in a minute", go in, sign the guestbook and get at the end of the short viewing line. He's laid out in a beautiful ebony casket with a red caranationed 'BAM' spelled out on a diagnol, and a carnationed heart and matching cross anchoring the left and right of the bier. I read the banners streaming from the arrangements and paused when I read the one from his "loving wife"??? There was a cute picture of him and lil' Lester, I mean "Lil BAM", over another arrangement and a banner from Ashley. So Ashley's NOT the "wife", right? I'm just trying to make sure I've got everything straight. Dang, I haven't even sat down yet and my eggs are already getting scrambled. He looked like he'd been dead for a while. He was shot in the leg and head in, oh never mind - read the blurb from the local rag for yourself:
"By James Tinley, Register Staff
jtinley@newhavenregister.com
The West Haven man charged with manslaughter after another resident was killed Saturday night may claim the shooting was in self-defense, his attorney said Monday during his arraignment.
Joseph Vreeland, 19, told police he shot Lester "Bamboo" McClease during a struggle over a gun McClease pulled out during a drug deal gone wrong in a car in West Haven, according to a police report made public Monday."
So, he looks like what he is - dead for a minute. He was killed almost 2 weeks ago, after the state medical examiner got through with him and McClam did his thing and wait, is that a patched bullet hole in this kid's forehead? Make that a badly patched bullet hole. Oh damn - this has just officially become surreal and again, I haven't even found a seat yet. His long, thick dreds were neatly pulled up and back, rocking a casual off-white button down, probably True Religion, Black Label, LRG or whatever gear kids are wearing now, his hands swollen and waxen allllllmost folded over his girth. I prayed his soul would find rest with God and since I'd never been to a funeral for a young shooting victim I decided on my usual spot near the back on the end of the pew in case I needed to make a quick exit. The sanctuary being a decent size was beginning to fill in quickly with friends/acquaintances/associates/duns/dudes/boys/crew - "or whateva niggas are calling themselves these days" - to quote A Pimp Named Slickback. A crack-ish looking young woman wearing black hot pants, a black t shirt and a red knit hat pulled down over two weaved pony tails meandered back and forth looking for God only knows what. Money? That Shizzle?? The rest of her butt???
11:15am: The funeral procession comes in with Rev. Scott Marks, a self-anointed local activist leading the way. The trail of "family" is pretty long - somewhere in the middle I spot Ash and Chante. Ash has on a blouse and slacks, her hair to her shoulders and the baby-weight gone. Chante is wearing a sleek black dress, tall and model thin. Once everyone's settled in the pastor of Morningstar, Bishop Vincent Smith takes the podium and tries to get something started with the Vicki Winans version of "How I got over" on c.d. Two things: I just hate that song and the c.d. was skipping. All bad. In a church full of what most certainly were un-churched people, the "praise party starter" song fell as flat as - well, a fart in church. Smith kept up with the "C'mon let's give Him some praise! Say Amen! Say Hallelujah!" patter until it became obvious that this would be a tough room, gave up and moved on. The old and new Testaments were read by a middle-aged woman and a Minister Victor Smith was introduced for remarks. I think his name was Victor Smith, but since Bishop Vincent Smith has had a perpetual frog in his throat ever since I've known him he could've been saying Vincent Smith. Anyway, we'll just call him Rev. Smith. He had a slight West Indies accent and gave remarks of how he led young BAM to the Lord at about age 12 but had lost contact with him as he grew older.
11:30am: The acknowledgements and obituary were read (nobody but family got a copy I noticed) and sidenote: the obituary that was printed in the aforementioned local paper had nothing about a "loving wife" but the one now being read did. Hmmmm. The call was made for remarks/remembrances from family/friends/associates/crew etc. and the now standard admonishment to keep it at "2 minutes" - which hardly anyone ever adheres to. A young man dressed in jeans/T-shirt popped up and got straight to the point, saying he hadn't known BAM that long but found him to be a good guy who was always helping people and would do anything for you except he was never where he was supposed to be when he said he would be. His standard response to the oft asked, "Where you at?" was "I'm 2 lights away!" Many of the gathered laughed in recognition of the familiar answer. The young man's reflections and comments were genuine and, under 2 minutes. A gentleman who said his son was a friend of BAM's gave fatherly remarks. A tearful young woman said BAM was her "baby daddy's" good friend and how he'd bring her baby pampers. A neatly dressed young man boldly stepped to the mic and passionately made the following observation: "I see many of you here today are wearing buttons and t-shirts with BAM's picture on it - and that's nice. But how much more of an impact do you think it would have made on his life if when he was struggling in his lifestyle and trying to find a job and do better if when he stepped out of his house he saw all of you standing outside with the t-shirts and buttons with his face on it? You talk about 'riding' for BAM - what if you had lived and LOVED for him?" Point made and taken. I feel convicted and I didn't even know the boy. Many of us stood and applauded him as he made his way back to his seat. Rev. Smith is back and oddly he goes the militant route pointing out how BAM's shooter, a white fellow, has only been charged with manslaughter and has a $250,000 bond. How if "it was a black man who killed a white man he'd be charged with murder and have a $3 million dollar bond!!" Some in the crowd ate that up too - I personally thought it was in poor taste not to mention an unnecessary roiling of a crowd where some of them may be pre-disposed to violence and/or revenge. Bishop Smith in his remarks wisely attempts to put a positive spin on things by piggybacking off of the young man who besought us to "live and love for BAM". Except it didn't have nearly the impact. Let me just pause here and make a point within my perceptions to any who may be contemplating or are in ministry. Un-churched people (or "heathens" as they used to be more commonly known) can smell con, game, phony-ness a mile away. You will be much more effective in your witnessing to them if you JUST KEEP IT REAL. That means no coattail/jock riding, no plagiarizing other preachers (especially someone from t.v. - just cause somebody doesn't go to church regularly doesn't mean they may not be catching some T.D. Jakes or Creflo on cable...) and no testi-lying!! Ya got that?? Now, where was I...
!2:00pm: Bishop Smith announces that after the next song, the next voice we'd hear would be that of Rev. Scott Marks. And then the smooth, mellow sounds of Smokey Robinson drifted from the church's speakers. I was like, "wait a minute (in the Homer Simpson voice) - is that the song Smoke sang at Melvin Williams' funeral in 'The Temptations' movie?!?" Oh yes, it is. A young woman in a pew near the front of the church started sobbing, I looked around and many of the young men sat slumped forward with their heads down - the cool dude's way of crying but not really crying so you can't see them crying. Then a version of "Precious Lord" was played that I'd never heard. It sounded - Baptist-y - and a whole lot of people just got up and started walking back and forth. I can only guess they were going outside since this is a one-way in/one-way out church and the ushers had blocked off the side aisle closest to me for the videographer. People were walking up and down the center aisle so much I thought it was a runway or perhaps something really good was being given away outside! I saw Ash go by with the baby - understandable, he may need changing although he wasn't fretting.
12:15pm: Once the song was over and Marks took the podium he did ask that everyone take their seats. Good, then it wasn't just me that was being made dizzy by all of the back and forthness. I was starting to feel like I was at a Moroccan street bazaar where the only things missing were goats and snake charmers...Marks asked everybody to get up from their seats and go hug somebody you didn't know as he loudly proclaimed "He IS Lord!!" into the microphone. No problem since I didn't know a soul sitting anywhere near me unless you want to count the girl and her little one who sat next to me and offered me an IceBreaker breath mint, which I gladly accepted. I've sung at this church a couple of times and the sound system isn't that great so couple that with a guy who's a bit of a megaphone mouth and you've got some pretty bad surround sound. My ears started ringing and itching. Thank God I wasn't sitting right under a speaker. He takes his scripture from Romans 6 - I didn't hear what verse (I can't imagine why not) but it really doesn't matter since all I heard was him going on and on about his life experiences, his growing up, his dad's parenting skills, the old Fair Haven neighborhood he grew up in, the kid who always got him in trouble, etc. He did reference the "3 stages of death - the natural death, the spiritual death and the eternal death" which I didn't get or care about since I was good and bored by then. He started to expound on his theory but didn't take long to get sidetracked with another self-reference. Bottomline: Dude was all OVER the place. I get it that he was trying to grab/relate to the crowd but also bring a sense of spirituality to the eulogy but what was really needed was some focus and since I had to go back to work, I couldn't wait him out to see if it was forthcoming. After a about a 1/2 an hour of his verbal wandering back and forthness and me getting absoutely no sense that he'd be "bringin' it home" anytime soon (I mean how do you end a rambling eulogy?: "And then I found $5"???) I decided to roll out.
12:45pm: If I had the cure for drug/alcohol addiction I'd be Bill Gates/Oprah/Warren Buffet/one of those Saudi Sheiks all put together rich - for about 15 minutes before "they" put a hit out on me. "They" meaning the forces/entities/people who have made sub abuse counseling/rehabbing, pharmaceutical companies, drug lords, advertising agencies, General Motors and Mercedes Benz,street level drug dealers, DEA, ATF, the latest "Drug Czar", gun and tiny cellophane bag manufacturers, et al a living for so many years. Would it be worth it to get these young men to stop killing each other? This is very sad to me. I'm 51 and there's been a dearth of decent, working, normal, date-able men in my generation for YEARS. What will Ashley and the young women of her generation have to choose from if they keep killing one another in "wars" over what? A CORNER?
"Because you know if money was nothing, if there was no money and everything depended on your moral standards and the way you behaved and the way you treated people, we'd be millionaires. We'd be rich." Lesane Parish Crooks, aka Tupac Shakur.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
"A MEAN MAN"
I'm not even gonna lie - I'm not feelin' this one y'all but because it's what I do - I'm doing it. The background story in a nutshell is this: When I was in pigtails, about 5ish and my sister Kim was about 7ish we lived with my mom in Bridgeport. Just the three of us girls. Just cool. Until mom took up with "pete moore". Boy did life change for the worse - at least for me it did. pete and mom worked together at Raybestos, a brakes manufacturer in Stratford and I guess that's where they met. I also assume that pete had a whole other family up New Haven way since when mom moved up there years later and Kim and I were in highschool we ran up on pete's son, Pierre. He's been dead but he was the absolute smoothest, chillest guy in school. No doubt. Now let's say he inherited his coolness from his dad and let's say further that's what attracted my mom to him. It sure wasn't because he liked little girls - or did he? I can remember once he drove me to the girl's club. I was riding shotgun (guess back then big brother could care less about little kids getting maimed in car accidents) and he had to brake hard. I flew into the windshield, cracking it and my head. Trust me, I did not feel like running around a gym with other screaming little girls or jumping on a trampoline after that near death experience. But wait, this nigger screamed on me! To wit: "Look what you did to my windshield!!" Not: "Are you o.k.? Do you want to go back home or to the emergency room??" Naw. Nigga just booted me out of the car and sent me on my way - probably with a mild concussion. No matter, since the next time we were all in his car (a long, navy blue Mercury with a white top), Kim and I in the back, I eased the window down and let one of his favorite Kangol's fly out to become one with the blacktop. His whisk broom that he used to brush off the upholstery or his suit or whatever, too. You better know it. Nigga.
He was a lil' fella but to me as a kid he was tall and menacing. He always answered the phone "petemoore", instead of "hello". All one word - like he was famous. Over the years he'd pop up to see my mom and she'd go all giddy and giggly like "ooooo, I must still have 'it'!" The last time I spoke in a vaguely civil manner to him was to correct his pronunciation of my name which the idiot never could or would say right. "It's Will-ette. Say it with me" like I was talking to - an idiot.
ANYway, he's dead. And the world's a better place because of it. And there was NO WAY I was going to NOT go to this low-life's funeral. It could've been the biggest blizzard of the century combined with a nor'easter, an ice storm and a hurricane - every winter weather abberation known to southern New England. I could've been vacationing at my favorite villa in the U.S. Virgin Islands and I would've cut it short just to look down in the coffin of a nigger named petemoore to make sure he was in fact dead. When Kim called me and told me he was dead/in that day's obituary section I got up from my desk, did a happy dance and put in a time off request slip for the funeral date/time. Oh Happy Day! THIS was how you ended a year!!!
Friday, December 18, 2009
10:45a.m.A sunny,bitterly cold day in New Haven, CT The funeral was at 11 so my plan was to get there for the tail end of the viewing - remember I needed to look down on him - and stake out my seat. The funeral was at Bethel AME church and since my girly-girl Gwen's been a member since birth I did a little fact checking on petemoore and his family beforehand. She said he had a wife but she hadn't been to church for a while. He was the Godfather of a former pastor's daughter (ewww! They must've been fresh out of Godfather candidates that year!). Said old pete/elmerfudd had been sick for a minute. Cancer or something. You reap what you sow.
The limousine is parked right in front of the entry way and I think perhaps the family hasn't gone in yet. I can't tell since the windows have a good tint and it really doesn't matter - I'm not caring about this man's family since this man wasn't caring about mine. I speak to the Howard K. Hill funeral guys standing century and leave my card of "sympathy" in the basket below the sign in book. I signed it the way he always f-ed up my name. Oh, but I can be a jerk of epic proportions. I know this church and a few of it's members pretty well. It's not big - 48 or 50 pews and a small 'overflow' seating area to the right of the sanctuary. Rustic, exposed beamed ceilings and dark wooden pews ensure you don't get too comfy. There's a balcony that I've never ventured into - no need to. And there was no need for anyone to venture up there today since there may have been a hot 75 people in attendance and half of them looked like they had one foot on a banana peel.
I walk straight up to the body. There was a carnation cross and a carnation heart with red roses on either side of the mahogany casket. His full head of grey hair matched his suit. He looked old. Dry. Dead. I lifted my sunglasses to my forehead and gave him a thorough examination. His hands looked old. Dry. Dead. Normally I offer up a prayer for the deceased's soul but not this time. Oh no. God would have to deal with this rasputatious nigga's soul without any input from me. I sucked my teeth, put my sunglasses back on and went to find a seat in the very back. So's I could see everything and body. I notice a woman about my age, also alone, on the other side of the center aisle. She's not sitting with the family. Maybe she worked with him at his last job? Maybe she's another one of his kid's the wife intentionally left out of the obituary.
11:00: A woman who sings in the group I sing with and attends Bethel sits down behind me. She's in one of the church's choirs and is dressed in her robe. We chatter until it's showtime. I never even bothered to look in his family's direction while giving old petey the once over, so now I'm totally focused on his wife and sons "Elmer III" and Robert. Kim and I both noticed that his eldest son Pierre was not mentioned in the newspaper's obituary. It's not in the service's obit either. What is that? I know the wife wasn't Pierre's mother but c'mon - he was his son. The obit mentions he was predeceased by a daughter but not Pierre.
11:30: The usual funeral service order is being followed and at a pretty good clip. The former pastor (they switch 'em up pretty regular at the AME church evidently) has remarks , a couple of hymns, the big upping of the widow by the current pastor: "He was a good provider as evidenced by his wife dressing her behind off!"; acknowledgements of cards by another lady that used to sing with me. Some minister or another described someone I clearly did not know with the following, exact words: "Gentle, quiet, dignified demeanor. A trustee. Quiet wisdom. Loving and giving spirit." Then the bull crap hit the fan.
His cousin, 'Reverend Joseph Duke McAlpine' gives the reflections from the family. I've seen this guy around over the years and he looks to be late 70's, tall, lean. I didn't know anything about him being a reverend and certainly never heard him preach anywhere. Whatever. He starts off by saying, "if Michael Jackson, Tiger Woods or Allen Iverson was in the house we'd all stand up. Let's all stand for pete." Coupla things here: #1 Michael Jackson's dead - if he was "in the house" I'd be out of the house. #2 Tiger has been on the ho of the century hot seat for a good 3 weeks now - ain't nobody standin up for him! #3 A.I.? Really? C'mon Pop-pop, you're showing your age. And lastly - stand up for a nigga named petemoore?!? I. Will. NOT. He referenced Ephesians 6:10 about putting on the whole armour of God and what a tough guy elmer was. Well hell's bells, I guess so - being 5'4" tall and having a name like "elmer" you BETTER be tough. How "nobody messed with them" because they "belonged to pete." I bout vomited in my mouth.
11:45: I've had enough of this ol' bullshizzle. I no more wanted to hear this man be honored and lifted up like he was the pillar of some alien community than I wanted to sniff a bum's briefs. I'm out. But you best believe on the first warm, sunny spring day of 2010 I'm gonna put on a cute skirt, go commando, find his grave, spread my legs and piss ALL over it. Or my name ain't "Louette". You better know it.
He was a lil' fella but to me as a kid he was tall and menacing. He always answered the phone "petemoore", instead of "hello". All one word - like he was famous. Over the years he'd pop up to see my mom and she'd go all giddy and giggly like "ooooo, I must still have 'it'!" The last time I spoke in a vaguely civil manner to him was to correct his pronunciation of my name which the idiot never could or would say right. "It's Will-ette. Say it with me" like I was talking to - an idiot.
ANYway, he's dead. And the world's a better place because of it. And there was NO WAY I was going to NOT go to this low-life's funeral. It could've been the biggest blizzard of the century combined with a nor'easter, an ice storm and a hurricane - every winter weather abberation known to southern New England. I could've been vacationing at my favorite villa in the U.S. Virgin Islands and I would've cut it short just to look down in the coffin of a nigger named petemoore to make sure he was in fact dead. When Kim called me and told me he was dead/in that day's obituary section I got up from my desk, did a happy dance and put in a time off request slip for the funeral date/time. Oh Happy Day! THIS was how you ended a year!!!
Friday, December 18, 2009
10:45a.m.A sunny,bitterly cold day in New Haven, CT The funeral was at 11 so my plan was to get there for the tail end of the viewing - remember I needed to look down on him - and stake out my seat. The funeral was at Bethel AME church and since my girly-girl Gwen's been a member since birth I did a little fact checking on petemoore and his family beforehand. She said he had a wife but she hadn't been to church for a while. He was the Godfather of a former pastor's daughter (ewww! They must've been fresh out of Godfather candidates that year!). Said old pete/elmerfudd had been sick for a minute. Cancer or something. You reap what you sow.
The limousine is parked right in front of the entry way and I think perhaps the family hasn't gone in yet. I can't tell since the windows have a good tint and it really doesn't matter - I'm not caring about this man's family since this man wasn't caring about mine. I speak to the Howard K. Hill funeral guys standing century and leave my card of "sympathy" in the basket below the sign in book. I signed it the way he always f-ed up my name. Oh, but I can be a jerk of epic proportions. I know this church and a few of it's members pretty well. It's not big - 48 or 50 pews and a small 'overflow' seating area to the right of the sanctuary. Rustic, exposed beamed ceilings and dark wooden pews ensure you don't get too comfy. There's a balcony that I've never ventured into - no need to. And there was no need for anyone to venture up there today since there may have been a hot 75 people in attendance and half of them looked like they had one foot on a banana peel.
I walk straight up to the body. There was a carnation cross and a carnation heart with red roses on either side of the mahogany casket. His full head of grey hair matched his suit. He looked old. Dry. Dead. I lifted my sunglasses to my forehead and gave him a thorough examination. His hands looked old. Dry. Dead. Normally I offer up a prayer for the deceased's soul but not this time. Oh no. God would have to deal with this rasputatious nigga's soul without any input from me. I sucked my teeth, put my sunglasses back on and went to find a seat in the very back. So's I could see everything and body. I notice a woman about my age, also alone, on the other side of the center aisle. She's not sitting with the family. Maybe she worked with him at his last job? Maybe she's another one of his kid's the wife intentionally left out of the obituary.
11:00: A woman who sings in the group I sing with and attends Bethel sits down behind me. She's in one of the church's choirs and is dressed in her robe. We chatter until it's showtime. I never even bothered to look in his family's direction while giving old petey the once over, so now I'm totally focused on his wife and sons "Elmer III" and Robert. Kim and I both noticed that his eldest son Pierre was not mentioned in the newspaper's obituary. It's not in the service's obit either. What is that? I know the wife wasn't Pierre's mother but c'mon - he was his son. The obit mentions he was predeceased by a daughter but not Pierre.
11:30: The usual funeral service order is being followed and at a pretty good clip. The former pastor (they switch 'em up pretty regular at the AME church evidently) has remarks , a couple of hymns, the big upping of the widow by the current pastor: "He was a good provider as evidenced by his wife dressing her behind off!"; acknowledgements of cards by another lady that used to sing with me. Some minister or another described someone I clearly did not know with the following, exact words: "Gentle, quiet, dignified demeanor. A trustee. Quiet wisdom. Loving and giving spirit." Then the bull crap hit the fan.
His cousin, 'Reverend Joseph Duke McAlpine' gives the reflections from the family. I've seen this guy around over the years and he looks to be late 70's, tall, lean. I didn't know anything about him being a reverend and certainly never heard him preach anywhere. Whatever. He starts off by saying, "if Michael Jackson, Tiger Woods or Allen Iverson was in the house we'd all stand up. Let's all stand for pete." Coupla things here: #1 Michael Jackson's dead - if he was "in the house" I'd be out of the house. #2 Tiger has been on the ho of the century hot seat for a good 3 weeks now - ain't nobody standin up for him! #3 A.I.? Really? C'mon Pop-pop, you're showing your age. And lastly - stand up for a nigga named petemoore?!? I. Will. NOT. He referenced Ephesians 6:10 about putting on the whole armour of God and what a tough guy elmer was. Well hell's bells, I guess so - being 5'4" tall and having a name like "elmer" you BETTER be tough. How "nobody messed with them" because they "belonged to pete." I bout vomited in my mouth.
11:45: I've had enough of this ol' bullshizzle. I no more wanted to hear this man be honored and lifted up like he was the pillar of some alien community than I wanted to sniff a bum's briefs. I'm out. But you best believe on the first warm, sunny spring day of 2010 I'm gonna put on a cute skirt, go commando, find his grave, spread my legs and piss ALL over it. Or my name ain't "Louette". You better know it.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
"Mama Sadie"
Many years ago my great grandmother Roberta Paige Turner helped to establish the first Church of God In Christ in the Portsmouth/Hampton Rhodes, VA area. Thus the beginnings of my 4th generation COGIC roots. Growing up , my mother sent my sister and I to church as a way to garner some "me" time for herself. We went, by ourselves, to whatever church was within walking distance or a relative or neighbor would take us to. Denomination didn't matter I guess, as long as they didn't eat little girls. My mom found Jesus sometime in her 40's and by then I didn't want anything to do with any church, I'd just make guest appearances at weddings and funerals. Her way of punishing us was to make us go to church. If we wanted to go to a dance or a party on Friday or Saturday night the trade off was we had to go to church on Sunday. She'd joined the church most of my family here in the New Haven, CT area attended - Trinity Temple Church of God in Christ where Bishop Charles H. Brewer, Jr. was pastor. After a couple of chilly cold walks to/from church I decided partying with my friends wasn't worth the torture of sitting through a church service. Over the years my mother tried to cajole, intimidate, coerce and hoodwink me into going to church but by then I'd seen a bit of the world, considered myself cosmopolitan and hedging my bets decided I'd be agnostic.
Although my conversion in my mid-20's wasn't a Saul/Paul experience of getting struck blind on the road to Damascus (or Bridgeport for that matter!) for persecuting Jesus' followers, I had plenty to be repentant about. Still do. It was enough however, to propel me headfirst into joining the "Grand Old Church of God in Christ" where I was fed spiritually, immersed in doctrine and put up on all kinds of church protocol. Lord have mercy did the Church Mother have her hands full with me and my "too short frocks". ..By the time I'd moved on and out of the COGIC, doctrine and Sunday School teaching firmly under my belt, she'd whipped me into some kind of reasonable shape and submission. Over the years I'd attended Official Days, Women's Days, Choir Anniversaries, Pastoral Anniversaries, Church Anniversaries, Pre-Pastoral Anniversaries, First Lady Day's, Teas, International Festivals, Conferences, Seminars, Retreats, Meetings and the grandaddy of 'em all - the COGIC Holy Convocation held annually each November - better known as "Memphis" to the initiated. I can't fathom how much I've given in offerings, dues, assessments and presentations during that time. How much was spent on clothes/hair/jewelry/shoes preparing for some of these functions. I don't even care - I'm just free of it. So now when I attend a COGIC-related event it's usually with a slight tilt of my head, y'know? I mean, I know what to expect and what's expected of me - but it's sort of an out of body experience. I had one of those experiences at the homegoing service of Mother Sadie Brewer, mother of Charles H. Brewer, Jr., presiding Bishop for the 1st Jurisdiction of the Church of God in Christ, Connecticut.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
10:55am - A typical November New England Day - grey, blustery, 50ish. It's the middle of my work day but - the Blog MUST go on. I got married at Trinity Temple, so did my sister for one of her 3 weddings. Other family weddings, funerals and anniversary celebrations have been held here. I never knew Mother Brewer. I was never a member of Trinity - but I know Bishop , now "Senior Pastor" and his only son Chuckie, now "Acting Pastor" although to my knowledge there's been no formal installation or passing of the baton. Our families have a long history going back to my great aunt Ruby Turner Pullen and "old Bishop" Brewer and Mama Brewer. They were contemporaries back when Trinity was located on Foote St. and well before I'd moved to New Haven. Aunt Ruby raised her family at Trinity. Her legacy is awe-inspiring: elders, missionaries, evangelists and pastors populate our family.
I park on Dixwell Avenue 1/2 a block from the church. A white limousine and pearl white hearse from Howard K. Hill Funeral Services are parked out front and there's virtually none of the usual foot traffic. I think to myself that perhaps I'm late/have missed something. As I approach the entrance a fellow I've seen at many of the aforementioned services falls in step with me from out of nowhere. We speak and enter the vestibule. There's been some updatin' and renovatin' at the "New Trinity Temple" and everything is brighter and more open. Black-suited men are everywhere - some I recognize, some I've never seen before. I'm on the clock because the viewing ends in like, 5 minutes. I go through the glass doors and right down the center aisle with a nod to a cluster of ushers who seemed to not be in short supply. It's not particuarly crowded yet so the opportunity to do a little hobnobbing and still get a good seat is not unrealistic. Mother Brewer's platinum colored casket is surrounded with a modest group of floral arrangements and sprays. I'd certainly expect more of a display with her only son being Bishop and her only daughter Pat being a pastor but I guess these hard economic times are cutting a pretty wide path. If I was still at my last COGIC church it would've been my job to see to it that a bereavement arrangment was sent...Mother is decked out in a winter white suite trimmed in matching fox fur. She's rocking a metallic gold turban-style hat (you don't get too much more COGIC than that!) with matching metallic gold ballet slippers. Yep, the coffin was totally open which is unusual no doubt - but cool. You can tell she was short since her feet didn't even reach the end of the casket. Either HKH's staff or somebody with the magic touch did her makeup or she was just blessed like that because her chocolate brown skin was as smooth as a baby's - a peacefilled, restful expression on her face, her pink manicured hands gracefully folded. Wow - even in the ultimate repose this woman's giving off vibes of pure elegance!
I decide to forego the mingling and instead found a seat on the last pew so I could have a wider view of the goings on and a quick and easy escape route since I knew I couldn't stay for the entire service. I guess the directive had been given for all the women/missionaries/evangelists to wear white or their official habits because I could see them all over the sanctuary now - either in their most elaborate winter white suits or the habits complete with hats reminiscent of a 1940's nurses uniform. 2 of my Aunt Ruby's daughters are sitting a few pews in front of me - Jackie and Jimmie. Jackie in white and her trademark ranch mink beret, Jimmie in a royal blue rain hat, and royal-er blue raincoat and who know's what underneath. Guess she didn't get the email...Enter Sheilah McCrazy and her mom, both dripping in full-length minks on this 50+ degree morning. Over. Kill. McCrazy has on a sharp ivory felt, high crowned hat - with an even sharper cherry red knit skirt suit. CHERRY RED. I can remember being told as a young girl that when someone wore red to a funeral it signified that they were "glad the person was dead". Now I don't know how true that is or where it even came from but c'mon - CHERRY RED??? At least her mama had on off-white. It's a little after 11 and the choir's all in white up and ready to go. I can see the gang of black suited men in the vestibule trying to get asssembled and Howard Hill himself assisting and appearing to give up. I could've told him that when you get that many preachers in one room/area you can fuggetaboutit - they're barely gonna take orders from the Almighty let alone a funeral director.
11:13am - The ushers open the double glass doors and Aunt Ruby's baby boy, Augustus "Butch" Pullen is clearly in charge. He's a district Superintendent for the COGIC and Bishop's go-to man for many years. Because he's a national adjutant he's extremely well-versed in all areas of protocol and Bishop knows he can be relied upon to do things "decently and in order". This is what he does. The choir's shifting into 3rd gear on the upbeat song and he gives the young director a stern look and signals with both hands to bring it waaaaay down. The choir does but the musicians are apparently in a zone. Finally everybody gets the message and the processional makes its way down the aisle. There are way more clergy/missionaries than Brewers. I'd say they're outnumbered 3-to-1 easily. Bishop Brewer in declining health for some years is wheeled in by a sunglass wearing, extra black edged up and bearded Scott Marks who's own father was just funeralized a week ago. Chuckie escorts his aunt Pat McDaniels who just always looks refined and polished to me but now has the weary look of grief underneath all of her finery. Hers and Chuck's children make up most of the family. Cassandra opted for something more colorful than the all white attire but Pat's oldest daughter working a blonde "I Dream of Jeanie" ponytail was in white. The last time I saw her she was bellydancing on the old Steve Harvey's Big Time show. All 200+ pounds of her. There's a older, chubby bleached blonde white woman in white and nothing short of a Vegas showgirl makeup job with the group. I don't have a program (they seem to be in short supply) so I can't even take an educated guess at who she might be.
11:30am - Everyone in their respective places, Bishop's bishop's chair has been removed from the altar and placed alongside the front pew. Butch is officiating. Pastor Gilbert Ginyard opens with a congregational hymn of "When We All Get To Heaven" except the sound system sounds like it's got a sock on it and either Ginyard or the organist started in a key entirely too low. All you could make out was the chorus - everything else was completely muffled. Oh well. He'd get a chance at redemption later in the service. Elder Rucker offers a prayer of condolence and Pastor Roger Wilkins "melodies of praise". The sock is finally removed from the sound system but the vibe is just, eh. Elder Ron Hurd gives the Old Testament reading, Pastor Nathaniel Woodward the New Testament. A proclamation from Trinity is read by the church's Administrator, Terrie Atkinson MacAuley Horton Estes detailing some of the attributes and accomplishments of this "Great Woman of God" - a phrase that would be oft repeated during this service. More resolutions and remarks were lined up and it was obvious this funeral was far from over.
12:00pm - Pastor Ginyard's back this time to sing "Stand" with the choir's support. The sound systems' healed and the organist has his correct key. All systems are go. Bishop gets wheeled out by Marks, presumably to the big boy's room since he's back in 5. It's circling around the time for me to get back to work. I entrust my Godson Joel to take up the reigns and report back to me once the funeral wraps up. I leave at 12:40pm and what follows is from his report...
2:00pm - I phone Joel to see if the funeral's over - he whispers "No, I'll call you when it's done." I can hear a woman speaking over the p.a. system in the background. Dang - they haven't even made it to the eulogy yet...
3:40pm - I text Joel to see if the funeral's over - he texts me back that he'll call me and tell me all about it.
Evidently at some point Mother Rivers, the COGIC's National Supervisor of Women(oh God, there are just soooo many titles to be had in this organization it makes me dizzy so please pardon me if I've messed somebody's credentials up!) who was in attendance with her adjutant, Mother Bogan got up to go to the ladies room. Sheilah McCrazy seized that opportunity to accost this woman (trust me, she had to climb over some people to get to her) as she made her way up the aisle and pressed her phone number on her telling her how she'd like to work in the Women's department on the national level!!! First the inappropriate suit color and now this?? Are there no boundaries this chick won't cross?? Did somebody miss their meds this morning?? Lord keep me somewhere in the vacinity of the cross!
Neither Bishop nor his sister Pat had remarks, they left that to their children Chuck and Cassandra respectively. Chuck went the "evangelist route" with a modest attempt at exhortation and Cassandra took the "intellectual path". Bishop Frank White in his remarks mentioned that "were it not for Bishop's health issues, he would have been elected to the General Board [of the COGIC} by now." Hmmmmm...Bishop Roy Jones gave the eulogy using the title "I just want to get out of here saved." Amen and selah. I think it's safe to assume that Mother Brewer did just that. Her assignment in this life fulfilled, God's plan for her legacy set in motion. Now we'll just have to wait and see how it plays out for the rest of us.
Although my conversion in my mid-20's wasn't a Saul/Paul experience of getting struck blind on the road to Damascus (or Bridgeport for that matter!) for persecuting Jesus' followers, I had plenty to be repentant about. Still do. It was enough however, to propel me headfirst into joining the "Grand Old Church of God in Christ" where I was fed spiritually, immersed in doctrine and put up on all kinds of church protocol. Lord have mercy did the Church Mother have her hands full with me and my "too short frocks". ..By the time I'd moved on and out of the COGIC, doctrine and Sunday School teaching firmly under my belt, she'd whipped me into some kind of reasonable shape and submission. Over the years I'd attended Official Days, Women's Days, Choir Anniversaries, Pastoral Anniversaries, Church Anniversaries, Pre-Pastoral Anniversaries, First Lady Day's, Teas, International Festivals, Conferences, Seminars, Retreats, Meetings and the grandaddy of 'em all - the COGIC Holy Convocation held annually each November - better known as "Memphis" to the initiated. I can't fathom how much I've given in offerings, dues, assessments and presentations during that time. How much was spent on clothes/hair/jewelry/shoes preparing for some of these functions. I don't even care - I'm just free of it. So now when I attend a COGIC-related event it's usually with a slight tilt of my head, y'know? I mean, I know what to expect and what's expected of me - but it's sort of an out of body experience. I had one of those experiences at the homegoing service of Mother Sadie Brewer, mother of Charles H. Brewer, Jr., presiding Bishop for the 1st Jurisdiction of the Church of God in Christ, Connecticut.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
10:55am - A typical November New England Day - grey, blustery, 50ish. It's the middle of my work day but - the Blog MUST go on. I got married at Trinity Temple, so did my sister for one of her 3 weddings. Other family weddings, funerals and anniversary celebrations have been held here. I never knew Mother Brewer. I was never a member of Trinity - but I know Bishop , now "Senior Pastor" and his only son Chuckie, now "Acting Pastor" although to my knowledge there's been no formal installation or passing of the baton. Our families have a long history going back to my great aunt Ruby Turner Pullen and "old Bishop" Brewer and Mama Brewer. They were contemporaries back when Trinity was located on Foote St. and well before I'd moved to New Haven. Aunt Ruby raised her family at Trinity. Her legacy is awe-inspiring: elders, missionaries, evangelists and pastors populate our family.
I park on Dixwell Avenue 1/2 a block from the church. A white limousine and pearl white hearse from Howard K. Hill Funeral Services are parked out front and there's virtually none of the usual foot traffic. I think to myself that perhaps I'm late/have missed something. As I approach the entrance a fellow I've seen at many of the aforementioned services falls in step with me from out of nowhere. We speak and enter the vestibule. There's been some updatin' and renovatin' at the "New Trinity Temple" and everything is brighter and more open. Black-suited men are everywhere - some I recognize, some I've never seen before. I'm on the clock because the viewing ends in like, 5 minutes. I go through the glass doors and right down the center aisle with a nod to a cluster of ushers who seemed to not be in short supply. It's not particuarly crowded yet so the opportunity to do a little hobnobbing and still get a good seat is not unrealistic. Mother Brewer's platinum colored casket is surrounded with a modest group of floral arrangements and sprays. I'd certainly expect more of a display with her only son being Bishop and her only daughter Pat being a pastor but I guess these hard economic times are cutting a pretty wide path. If I was still at my last COGIC church it would've been my job to see to it that a bereavement arrangment was sent...Mother is decked out in a winter white suite trimmed in matching fox fur. She's rocking a metallic gold turban-style hat (you don't get too much more COGIC than that!) with matching metallic gold ballet slippers. Yep, the coffin was totally open which is unusual no doubt - but cool. You can tell she was short since her feet didn't even reach the end of the casket. Either HKH's staff or somebody with the magic touch did her makeup or she was just blessed like that because her chocolate brown skin was as smooth as a baby's - a peacefilled, restful expression on her face, her pink manicured hands gracefully folded. Wow - even in the ultimate repose this woman's giving off vibes of pure elegance!
I decide to forego the mingling and instead found a seat on the last pew so I could have a wider view of the goings on and a quick and easy escape route since I knew I couldn't stay for the entire service. I guess the directive had been given for all the women/missionaries/evangelists to wear white or their official habits because I could see them all over the sanctuary now - either in their most elaborate winter white suits or the habits complete with hats reminiscent of a 1940's nurses uniform. 2 of my Aunt Ruby's daughters are sitting a few pews in front of me - Jackie and Jimmie. Jackie in white and her trademark ranch mink beret, Jimmie in a royal blue rain hat, and royal-er blue raincoat and who know's what underneath. Guess she didn't get the email...Enter Sheilah McCrazy and her mom, both dripping in full-length minks on this 50+ degree morning. Over. Kill. McCrazy has on a sharp ivory felt, high crowned hat - with an even sharper cherry red knit skirt suit. CHERRY RED. I can remember being told as a young girl that when someone wore red to a funeral it signified that they were "glad the person was dead". Now I don't know how true that is or where it even came from but c'mon - CHERRY RED??? At least her mama had on off-white. It's a little after 11 and the choir's all in white up and ready to go. I can see the gang of black suited men in the vestibule trying to get asssembled and Howard Hill himself assisting and appearing to give up. I could've told him that when you get that many preachers in one room/area you can fuggetaboutit - they're barely gonna take orders from the Almighty let alone a funeral director.
11:13am - The ushers open the double glass doors and Aunt Ruby's baby boy, Augustus "Butch" Pullen is clearly in charge. He's a district Superintendent for the COGIC and Bishop's go-to man for many years. Because he's a national adjutant he's extremely well-versed in all areas of protocol and Bishop knows he can be relied upon to do things "decently and in order". This is what he does. The choir's shifting into 3rd gear on the upbeat song and he gives the young director a stern look and signals with both hands to bring it waaaaay down. The choir does but the musicians are apparently in a zone. Finally everybody gets the message and the processional makes its way down the aisle. There are way more clergy/missionaries than Brewers. I'd say they're outnumbered 3-to-1 easily. Bishop Brewer in declining health for some years is wheeled in by a sunglass wearing, extra black edged up and bearded Scott Marks who's own father was just funeralized a week ago. Chuckie escorts his aunt Pat McDaniels who just always looks refined and polished to me but now has the weary look of grief underneath all of her finery. Hers and Chuck's children make up most of the family. Cassandra opted for something more colorful than the all white attire but Pat's oldest daughter working a blonde "I Dream of Jeanie" ponytail was in white. The last time I saw her she was bellydancing on the old Steve Harvey's Big Time show. All 200+ pounds of her. There's a older, chubby bleached blonde white woman in white and nothing short of a Vegas showgirl makeup job with the group. I don't have a program (they seem to be in short supply) so I can't even take an educated guess at who she might be.
11:30am - Everyone in their respective places, Bishop's bishop's chair has been removed from the altar and placed alongside the front pew. Butch is officiating. Pastor Gilbert Ginyard opens with a congregational hymn of "When We All Get To Heaven" except the sound system sounds like it's got a sock on it and either Ginyard or the organist started in a key entirely too low. All you could make out was the chorus - everything else was completely muffled. Oh well. He'd get a chance at redemption later in the service. Elder Rucker offers a prayer of condolence and Pastor Roger Wilkins "melodies of praise". The sock is finally removed from the sound system but the vibe is just, eh. Elder Ron Hurd gives the Old Testament reading, Pastor Nathaniel Woodward the New Testament. A proclamation from Trinity is read by the church's Administrator, Terrie Atkinson MacAuley Horton Estes detailing some of the attributes and accomplishments of this "Great Woman of God" - a phrase that would be oft repeated during this service. More resolutions and remarks were lined up and it was obvious this funeral was far from over.
12:00pm - Pastor Ginyard's back this time to sing "Stand" with the choir's support. The sound systems' healed and the organist has his correct key. All systems are go. Bishop gets wheeled out by Marks, presumably to the big boy's room since he's back in 5. It's circling around the time for me to get back to work. I entrust my Godson Joel to take up the reigns and report back to me once the funeral wraps up. I leave at 12:40pm and what follows is from his report...
2:00pm - I phone Joel to see if the funeral's over - he whispers "No, I'll call you when it's done." I can hear a woman speaking over the p.a. system in the background. Dang - they haven't even made it to the eulogy yet...
3:40pm - I text Joel to see if the funeral's over - he texts me back that he'll call me and tell me all about it.
Evidently at some point Mother Rivers, the COGIC's National Supervisor of Women(oh God, there are just soooo many titles to be had in this organization it makes me dizzy so please pardon me if I've messed somebody's credentials up!) who was in attendance with her adjutant, Mother Bogan got up to go to the ladies room. Sheilah McCrazy seized that opportunity to accost this woman (trust me, she had to climb over some people to get to her) as she made her way up the aisle and pressed her phone number on her telling her how she'd like to work in the Women's department on the national level!!! First the inappropriate suit color and now this?? Are there no boundaries this chick won't cross?? Did somebody miss their meds this morning?? Lord keep me somewhere in the vacinity of the cross!
Neither Bishop nor his sister Pat had remarks, they left that to their children Chuck and Cassandra respectively. Chuck went the "evangelist route" with a modest attempt at exhortation and Cassandra took the "intellectual path". Bishop Frank White in his remarks mentioned that "were it not for Bishop's health issues, he would have been elected to the General Board [of the COGIC} by now." Hmmmmm...Bishop Roy Jones gave the eulogy using the title "I just want to get out of here saved." Amen and selah. I think it's safe to assume that Mother Brewer did just that. Her assignment in this life fulfilled, God's plan for her legacy set in motion. Now we'll just have to wait and see how it plays out for the rest of us.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
"Ernie"
"Ernie"
Ernestine Bailey Goodwyn was my boy Chuck's mom. Chuck has been a reader and appreciater of my 'funeral blogs' before I even had a blog site. We go way back, 'bout 25 years now. We joke about how when we first met at a club outside of Hartford; he was with a friend of his and how if he'd only asked me to dance first neither of our lives would have been the same. I'm glad we never dated - ours is a solid friendship built on shared interests, different life lessons and zillions of laughs. I fancy myself the (big) sister he never had. He's one of those brothers that can do a little bit of everything - and if he can't - he'll tell you who can. Resourceful. Charming. Quick witted. Dependable. That's Chucky. It doesn't hurt that he's got dimples to die for and eyelashes that would make RuPaul envious! So yeah, easy on the eyes too.
Our paths crossed again in our late 20's when we both began working for the same State of Con(n) agency. We'd laugh until we'd choke and cry, wrestle one another to the floor when our trash talking would reach it's apex - then go back to our desks and finish working, and more recently commiserate about our respective mother's declining health as they were both in nursing homes. The circle of life. I can remember being out and celebrating his 40th birthday, my 40th birthday, Christmas, thank-God-it's-Friday - and sooner or later either Chuck would get a phone call or cut out early because he had to go check in on Miss Ernestine. He never complained. It wasn't like an obligation for him - more like an honor. I've got to admit, I didn't really understand his sense of devotion then - he's an only child - but after more than my fair share of butt wipings for my own mother I, too, know that kind of love.
I'd met Miss Ernestine on only a couple of occasions. I knew she had a fondness for peanut butter treats and when I baked I'd give Chuck extra to slip to her on his visits. A true southern lady, gentle like but very direct in her observations. Powdered, lipsticked, bejeweled and beaded up - I sensed she was the type of woman who got her way without imposing her will. They don't breed 'em like that much anymore...
Thursday, September 24, 2009
New Haven, CT
10:55a.m.: It's a beautiful and warm early fall morning. Big puffy clouds. A skipping work kind of day... The funeral processional turns right in front of me as I make my way down Dwight St. "Geez, am I ALWAYS running on CP time???", I chide myself. It's a short line of cars and they ease down Chapel St. and stop in front of Miss Ernestine's home church, Immanuel Baptist - the longstanding bastion for New Haven's muck d' muck as my mother would say. That's Toot-speak for the bourgeois negros. There's plenty of 'em 'round these parts. I zip down a side street, grab a park and try to hustle inside the sanctuary before the family does. I mean, as a professional funeral-goer I know my funeral protocol - trust, it is tres tacky to be trying to come in alongside/behind/ahead of the family. I succeed, in part I'd like to think, because I'm rolling by myself. After speaking to a couple of co-workers I pop into the church's vestibule. I speak to a couple of the pallbearers I know and go try to sign the guest book, except the pen isn't working. I pull out my own. That one's not working either. Oh well - nobody can make out my signature anyway. It keeps the forgers at bay. I enter the sanctuary which has folks scattered throughout on both sides. Immanuel's a good size church, I'm not real good with square footage estimations but I'd suppose it seats 500 comfortably. I had mad choices. I almost go make one when I realize I've still got a couple of minutes of "viewing" time left. Yippee!! I ain't as colored as I thought! Miss Ernestine has on a beautiful purple dress and is powdered, lipsticked and bejeweled to perfection - just like I remember her. She's 81 according to the obituary but looks a good 15 years younger. Good living. And kudos to Howard K. Hill, the local superstar mortician. I say a prayer for her soul and choose my seat behind some of my fellow Faith Christian Center church members. One of the life changes I made for myself in this 50th year of my roaming the earth was to leave the "family" church circle I'd been in for the last 20+ years and joined a ministry where I'm not only fed spiritually but my spirit is free. I'm just "Willette" - not anyone's sister or daughter or cousin or niece. There are no other expectations of me beyond that. It just so happens that Chuck and his sweet wife are members too.
11:00: The Reverend Samuel T. Ross-Lee, Pastor of Immanuel Missionary Baptist Church leads the funeral processional down the center aisle. Miss Ernestine is survived by 1 sister and her 1 son. Her husband died a few years back. As noted in a previous blog, when you live to be 80 and 90+ your funeral is either well attended or you've outlived just about everybody. The processional is nowhere near as long as one of my families. We don't die, we multiply. For real. Because of the type of congregation Immanuel has historically had, the age of Miss Ernestine and the fact that underneath all of his spearchucking shenanigans, Chuck's really a classy guy, I didn't expect anything less than a tasteful, honorable homegoing service. I am not disappointed.
In between Old and New Testament readings the obviously Senior Choir (who else can afford to leave their gig in the middle of the morning for who knows how long??) sings "It is Well with My Soul". And it is. The "ex" slips into the pew behind me in uniform. He says he's working an extra-duty job nowhere near Immanuel but wanted to come by - his and Chuck's parents are friends from before they were born. He wants a program, but I never got one. I ask another FCC member who'd sat down next to me if we could look at hers. As he gets ready to leave he threatens to steal the program. I snatch it from him and return it with an apology. Thievin' cops...More scriptures, prayers and a lovely soprano operatic rendition of "I Trust in God" complete with rolling r's ("the billows rrrrroll") follow. Words of comfort are offered along with some of Miss Ernestine's life accomplishments. She'd been an elementary school teacher in her home state of North Carolina and here in New Haven, a lifetime member of Immanuel and part of their Flower Club. A member of the New Haven Club of the National Association of "Negro Bidness" and Professional Women's Clubs, Inc. "Hmmm," I think in full jerk-mode, "does that club have something to do with Bid Whist playing?" - Oh never mind...She lived a good, full life.
11:30: One of the Deacons reads a few cards/acknowledgements and speaks of how she'd take communion up to Ernie at the nursing home. In their visits she said they'd sometimes sing - that makes me smile. Clearly in spite of her physical circumstances, she still saw beauty in her life.
It's time for the family tributes and I'm not sure who or what to expect since again, there aren't many of them. A young man who isn't sitting with the family gets up and says what most of us were likely thinking: "Who is this light-skinned brother?" Actually, to my way of thinking he was more of a light brown-skinned brother. Oh how us colored folk love to play the "complexion" game. Still. In 2009. Sigh. Anyway, after nervously introducing himself as one of the employees at the nursing home "Mrs. Goodwyn" was in, he soon had practically the whole church in tears describing the touching and real relationship he'd established with her. He'd claimed her as his "grandmother" and witnessed first hand Chuck's devotion to her along with his innate charm by his mere presence when visiting his mom :"Everybody would light up when Chuck came up - and the ladies loved Chuck!" Indeed. I am moved by the fact that this young man works in a facility populated mainly by "old people" as he put it, and didn't allow it to create a barrier to his getting to know Miss Ernestine. Generation gap? What? He grew to love her - and she, him I'm sure. He and Chuck share a long embrace at his conclusion. I am convinced that love is the most powerful high there is. It's no wonder God equates Himself with it. Crack? Heroin? Crystal Meth? Crown Royal on Ice?!? You better go get you some real love baby!!
A couple of other men - self-described family friends who's lives had also been positively impacted by Miss Ernestine spoke eloquently of her love of faith, family and friends. How she was a Miami Dolphins fan and expected the best from those she cared for and taught. How she created a warm and welcoming environment in her home and again, how she loved her "Chuckie". One of them sang a snappy rendition of "Great is Thy Faithfulness". I chuckled as Ronnie Pollard, a tenor with the gospel group I sing with, tried in vain to slow the tempo down with his piano accompaniment but ol' boy whipped through all 3 or 4 verses of that hymn in record time. C'mon, you know and I know that anytime anybody sings that song, they're gonna milk it for all it's worth. Not today. Not him.
12:00: Ahhh, the eulogy. I've never heard Rev. Ross-Lee preach - if I did, I don't remember. Not a good sign. He's on the young-ish end, certainly younger than I. A transplant from some place way south of here and - non-traditional -shall we say? There's been some murmuring and complainin' from the parishoners about his "electric sliding" at some local watering hole and chillin' with his frat brothers at their annual picnic amongst other things. To quote Neffie (you know who I'm talkin' about): "SO WHAT!!!" I'm willing to give the pastor the benefit of the doubt. C'mon. Bring it. He opens with the 23 Psalm. And then focuses on the 4th verse: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For You are with me;" - okey dokey, not exactly funereal, but I'm willing to ride with him a little longer to see where we end up. He's a little low key and it's apparent he really doesn't know Miss Ernestine. In all fairness, she was under the pastoring of the inimitable Rev. Curtis Cofield, who'd pastored Immanuel for years -left and came back and pastored some more before dying himself last year. Dude has had some Shaq-foo sized shoes to fill at this church. Aaaaand I'm starting to hear a bit of a persecution complex drifting into this eulogy as he builds to a modest crescendo. And then, boop - he's done. 13 minutes FLAT.
Howard K. Hill and staff stealthily take their positions and present a beautiful tapestry of Miss Ernestine to Chuck - it's a picture of her as a young woman. Her obituary states that she loved to "create and was familiar with tapestries and their intricate designs." What a lovely keepsake and not that the usual "family bible" isn't a good look, this isn't something that would be collecting dust in a corner. The pallbearers get on their posts and we head back out into the autumn sunshine. Chuck has gotten out of the limousine or never got in and is greeting friends - laughing and smiling. I've seen Chuck pull pranks on people that would win him an emmy, I've seen him angry as all get out and ready to put foot to tail. I can't say that I've ever seen him sad however. Perhaps I have and I just didn't know it. My prayer for him is that he is the man his mother would want him to be. I see my Pastor's wife, hug her and sidemouth to her: "I wish Pastor had preached - he was kinda dry." She laughs and says I'm "spoiled". True that. Hold on - what's this? I think I see a candidate for "Mr. Fine 2009" - and he's with what appears to be his mom or perhaps an auntie. Oh now here comes the "ex" again from his "nowhere near here" job. Oh, oh and the friend of Chuck's from 25 years ago who asked me to dance first. Nope - I'm not getting caught up in this negro-fied matrix - I'm takin' my black butt back to work. Right after I get some lunch. Hey, I've gotta keep my weight up.
Ernestine Bailey Goodwyn was my boy Chuck's mom. Chuck has been a reader and appreciater of my 'funeral blogs' before I even had a blog site. We go way back, 'bout 25 years now. We joke about how when we first met at a club outside of Hartford; he was with a friend of his and how if he'd only asked me to dance first neither of our lives would have been the same. I'm glad we never dated - ours is a solid friendship built on shared interests, different life lessons and zillions of laughs. I fancy myself the (big) sister he never had. He's one of those brothers that can do a little bit of everything - and if he can't - he'll tell you who can. Resourceful. Charming. Quick witted. Dependable. That's Chucky. It doesn't hurt that he's got dimples to die for and eyelashes that would make RuPaul envious! So yeah, easy on the eyes too.
Our paths crossed again in our late 20's when we both began working for the same State of Con(n) agency. We'd laugh until we'd choke and cry, wrestle one another to the floor when our trash talking would reach it's apex - then go back to our desks and finish working, and more recently commiserate about our respective mother's declining health as they were both in nursing homes. The circle of life. I can remember being out and celebrating his 40th birthday, my 40th birthday, Christmas, thank-God-it's-Friday - and sooner or later either Chuck would get a phone call or cut out early because he had to go check in on Miss Ernestine. He never complained. It wasn't like an obligation for him - more like an honor. I've got to admit, I didn't really understand his sense of devotion then - he's an only child - but after more than my fair share of butt wipings for my own mother I, too, know that kind of love.
I'd met Miss Ernestine on only a couple of occasions. I knew she had a fondness for peanut butter treats and when I baked I'd give Chuck extra to slip to her on his visits. A true southern lady, gentle like but very direct in her observations. Powdered, lipsticked, bejeweled and beaded up - I sensed she was the type of woman who got her way without imposing her will. They don't breed 'em like that much anymore...
Thursday, September 24, 2009
New Haven, CT
10:55a.m.: It's a beautiful and warm early fall morning. Big puffy clouds. A skipping work kind of day... The funeral processional turns right in front of me as I make my way down Dwight St. "Geez, am I ALWAYS running on CP time???", I chide myself. It's a short line of cars and they ease down Chapel St. and stop in front of Miss Ernestine's home church, Immanuel Baptist - the longstanding bastion for New Haven's muck d' muck as my mother would say. That's Toot-speak for the bourgeois negros. There's plenty of 'em 'round these parts. I zip down a side street, grab a park and try to hustle inside the sanctuary before the family does. I mean, as a professional funeral-goer I know my funeral protocol - trust, it is tres tacky to be trying to come in alongside/behind/ahead of the family. I succeed, in part I'd like to think, because I'm rolling by myself. After speaking to a couple of co-workers I pop into the church's vestibule. I speak to a couple of the pallbearers I know and go try to sign the guest book, except the pen isn't working. I pull out my own. That one's not working either. Oh well - nobody can make out my signature anyway. It keeps the forgers at bay. I enter the sanctuary which has folks scattered throughout on both sides. Immanuel's a good size church, I'm not real good with square footage estimations but I'd suppose it seats 500 comfortably. I had mad choices. I almost go make one when I realize I've still got a couple of minutes of "viewing" time left. Yippee!! I ain't as colored as I thought! Miss Ernestine has on a beautiful purple dress and is powdered, lipsticked and bejeweled to perfection - just like I remember her. She's 81 according to the obituary but looks a good 15 years younger. Good living. And kudos to Howard K. Hill, the local superstar mortician. I say a prayer for her soul and choose my seat behind some of my fellow Faith Christian Center church members. One of the life changes I made for myself in this 50th year of my roaming the earth was to leave the "family" church circle I'd been in for the last 20+ years and joined a ministry where I'm not only fed spiritually but my spirit is free. I'm just "Willette" - not anyone's sister or daughter or cousin or niece. There are no other expectations of me beyond that. It just so happens that Chuck and his sweet wife are members too.
11:00: The Reverend Samuel T. Ross-Lee, Pastor of Immanuel Missionary Baptist Church leads the funeral processional down the center aisle. Miss Ernestine is survived by 1 sister and her 1 son. Her husband died a few years back. As noted in a previous blog, when you live to be 80 and 90+ your funeral is either well attended or you've outlived just about everybody. The processional is nowhere near as long as one of my families. We don't die, we multiply. For real. Because of the type of congregation Immanuel has historically had, the age of Miss Ernestine and the fact that underneath all of his spearchucking shenanigans, Chuck's really a classy guy, I didn't expect anything less than a tasteful, honorable homegoing service. I am not disappointed.
In between Old and New Testament readings the obviously Senior Choir (who else can afford to leave their gig in the middle of the morning for who knows how long??) sings "It is Well with My Soul". And it is. The "ex" slips into the pew behind me in uniform. He says he's working an extra-duty job nowhere near Immanuel but wanted to come by - his and Chuck's parents are friends from before they were born. He wants a program, but I never got one. I ask another FCC member who'd sat down next to me if we could look at hers. As he gets ready to leave he threatens to steal the program. I snatch it from him and return it with an apology. Thievin' cops...More scriptures, prayers and a lovely soprano operatic rendition of "I Trust in God" complete with rolling r's ("the billows rrrrroll") follow. Words of comfort are offered along with some of Miss Ernestine's life accomplishments. She'd been an elementary school teacher in her home state of North Carolina and here in New Haven, a lifetime member of Immanuel and part of their Flower Club. A member of the New Haven Club of the National Association of "Negro Bidness" and Professional Women's Clubs, Inc. "Hmmm," I think in full jerk-mode, "does that club have something to do with Bid Whist playing?" - Oh never mind...She lived a good, full life.
11:30: One of the Deacons reads a few cards/acknowledgements and speaks of how she'd take communion up to Ernie at the nursing home. In their visits she said they'd sometimes sing - that makes me smile. Clearly in spite of her physical circumstances, she still saw beauty in her life.
It's time for the family tributes and I'm not sure who or what to expect since again, there aren't many of them. A young man who isn't sitting with the family gets up and says what most of us were likely thinking: "Who is this light-skinned brother?" Actually, to my way of thinking he was more of a light brown-skinned brother. Oh how us colored folk love to play the "complexion" game. Still. In 2009. Sigh. Anyway, after nervously introducing himself as one of the employees at the nursing home "Mrs. Goodwyn" was in, he soon had practically the whole church in tears describing the touching and real relationship he'd established with her. He'd claimed her as his "grandmother" and witnessed first hand Chuck's devotion to her along with his innate charm by his mere presence when visiting his mom :"Everybody would light up when Chuck came up - and the ladies loved Chuck!" Indeed. I am moved by the fact that this young man works in a facility populated mainly by "old people" as he put it, and didn't allow it to create a barrier to his getting to know Miss Ernestine. Generation gap? What? He grew to love her - and she, him I'm sure. He and Chuck share a long embrace at his conclusion. I am convinced that love is the most powerful high there is. It's no wonder God equates Himself with it. Crack? Heroin? Crystal Meth? Crown Royal on Ice?!? You better go get you some real love baby!!
A couple of other men - self-described family friends who's lives had also been positively impacted by Miss Ernestine spoke eloquently of her love of faith, family and friends. How she was a Miami Dolphins fan and expected the best from those she cared for and taught. How she created a warm and welcoming environment in her home and again, how she loved her "Chuckie". One of them sang a snappy rendition of "Great is Thy Faithfulness". I chuckled as Ronnie Pollard, a tenor with the gospel group I sing with, tried in vain to slow the tempo down with his piano accompaniment but ol' boy whipped through all 3 or 4 verses of that hymn in record time. C'mon, you know and I know that anytime anybody sings that song, they're gonna milk it for all it's worth. Not today. Not him.
12:00: Ahhh, the eulogy. I've never heard Rev. Ross-Lee preach - if I did, I don't remember. Not a good sign. He's on the young-ish end, certainly younger than I. A transplant from some place way south of here and - non-traditional -shall we say? There's been some murmuring and complainin' from the parishoners about his "electric sliding" at some local watering hole and chillin' with his frat brothers at their annual picnic amongst other things. To quote Neffie (you know who I'm talkin' about): "SO WHAT!!!" I'm willing to give the pastor the benefit of the doubt. C'mon. Bring it. He opens with the 23 Psalm. And then focuses on the 4th verse: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For You are with me;" - okey dokey, not exactly funereal, but I'm willing to ride with him a little longer to see where we end up. He's a little low key and it's apparent he really doesn't know Miss Ernestine. In all fairness, she was under the pastoring of the inimitable Rev. Curtis Cofield, who'd pastored Immanuel for years -left and came back and pastored some more before dying himself last year. Dude has had some Shaq-foo sized shoes to fill at this church. Aaaaand I'm starting to hear a bit of a persecution complex drifting into this eulogy as he builds to a modest crescendo. And then, boop - he's done. 13 minutes FLAT.
Howard K. Hill and staff stealthily take their positions and present a beautiful tapestry of Miss Ernestine to Chuck - it's a picture of her as a young woman. Her obituary states that she loved to "create and was familiar with tapestries and their intricate designs." What a lovely keepsake and not that the usual "family bible" isn't a good look, this isn't something that would be collecting dust in a corner. The pallbearers get on their posts and we head back out into the autumn sunshine. Chuck has gotten out of the limousine or never got in and is greeting friends - laughing and smiling. I've seen Chuck pull pranks on people that would win him an emmy, I've seen him angry as all get out and ready to put foot to tail. I can't say that I've ever seen him sad however. Perhaps I have and I just didn't know it. My prayer for him is that he is the man his mother would want him to be. I see my Pastor's wife, hug her and sidemouth to her: "I wish Pastor had preached - he was kinda dry." She laughs and says I'm "spoiled". True that. Hold on - what's this? I think I see a candidate for "Mr. Fine 2009" - and he's with what appears to be his mom or perhaps an auntie. Oh now here comes the "ex" again from his "nowhere near here" job. Oh, oh and the friend of Chuck's from 25 years ago who asked me to dance first. Nope - I'm not getting caught up in this negro-fied matrix - I'm takin' my black butt back to work. Right after I get some lunch. Hey, I've gotta keep my weight up.
Friday, February 6, 2009
"Uncle James" ("Uncle Pete")
I know, I know, it's been a minute. And it's not because folk haven't been dying, it's just that along with my grind I've got a hustle and family issues. I ain't had time to go to no funerals! That's all the explanation I'm going to offer.
Gwen, my girly-girl is also the supervisor for my hustle. She's 10 years my junior but from the time I met her (some 15 years ago?) she's always impressed me with her sharp mind and even sharper sense of humor. She gets it. On Thursday, December 4, 2008 I had to call her to dot some i's & cross some t's regarding time cards and she was instructing me on the fly. Her mom's brother, "Uncle" James Abraham had been living with her and her 10 year old son Blake for the past 3 years or so. A polite gent whom you seldom saw, but certainly smelled - the man smoked like a chimney which resulted in Gwen's home smelling like "The Dirty Bird" at 1am on a Friday night. We jokingly called him "Uncle Pete" from the movie, 'Soul Food' - tucked away in his own room, coming out for meals or to use the facilities and presumably, to get a fresh pack. Just cool.
Uncle James would often hold down the fort for her when she was out on one of her many missions: adjunct professor at the local community college, choir director at her church, co-director for a community choir (which I also sing in), her grind for the city of New Haven, sorority meetings, DJ'ng a local gospel radio show, helping to take care of her sick father and the list goes on. Thinking about what Gwen does makes me tired. Knowing he was in the house with her son gave her a sense of security when her missions kept her out later or longer than expected. It is hard work being a responsible single parent. It really does take a village.
As we wrapped up our business on the phone, she called out: "Uncle James? Uncle James? - Willie, I've been calling him all day and he ain't answerin' his phone." I hear her making her way through her house to his room. "Damn Willette, he's dead".
Monday, December 8, 2008
9:55am: The funeral is being held right at Howard K. Hill Funeral Services on Chapel St., a converted Georgian manse that used to be home to a white funeral home back in the day. This section of Chapel St. has undergone several re-inventions starting in the 60's after the riots. The stretch has been home to church's, bars (the Swingin Doors!), beauty salons, a furrier, chinese take out, community outreach centers and homes. Howard Hill is a young man who by all accounts and my own observations does an absolutely stellar job in body prep not to mention his level of professionalism and courtesy to the bereaved. As a bonafide funeral-goer, he gets top grades from me. He's recently begun renovations on his facility and was at the door personally greeting as I stepped into the foyer on this bracingly cold New England December day. Someone tapped me from behind as I extended my gloved hand to Howard and from every angle my eyes could take in, the place was near capacity. I turned to see who'd tapped me, thinking I was in someone's way already. It was AJ, Gwen's BFF, who like me, had dipped out of work to come support G and her family. He blew me a kiss as he huddled near the door and whispered he couldn't stay because he had to get back to work/court. I signed the guest book and started picking my way through the maze of doorways until I saw a free seat. Sticking my head into the main parlor/viewing room I caught Gwen's sister Debbie's eye and asked if it was too late to view the body. She said I still had time and although I don't really need to look at dead people, I really did need to take a look at Howard's handywork. Uncle James in a natty light grey suit and tie, eyeglasses and a crisp edge up looks like he's taking a nap after (or during) Sunday morning service. Another Howard Homerun!
I lean over to Gwen's mom, Ms. Janie to offer condolences. Ever the lady, completely composed and rocking a ranch mink wide brimmed cowboy hat, she thanks me and pecks me on the cheek. She is class. I want to be like Ms. Janie when I grow up. I skidaddle to my seat because Howard's on the scene closing the casket and the Busch women's pastor, Daylan Greer of the "Great Beth El AME", is about to get started.
10:05am: There's no processional, Pastor Greer is following the very succinct program per Ms. Janie's instructions, offering a pretty loudmouthed prayer of comfort then introducing "Minister Jenkins" who proffers Old (Ps. 23) and New (John 14:1-6) Testament readings.
10:10am: Gwen's singing! She's a trooper and like her mother, totally composed. She's a better woman than me on two fronts: she's been able to sleep in her house (with company) and she's got her heart far enough out of her throat to sing. And sing she does - the "new" funeral classic, "I Won't Complain". It's the new millenium version of "His Eye is On the Sparrow". She begins a capella and whoever's on the keyboard plucks around until they find her key - which is - different. As any singer worth their salt does, she "personalizes" the lyrics (i.e.: changes the words) for Uncle James. I listen contentedly while taking in the new Howard K. Hill Funeral Services decor. Off- peach stucco walls with white trim and either dusky mauve or brick-colored drapes. Hmmmm. Not sure I would've put that color combo together. A candle burns a scent on one of the fireplace mantles that's making my stomach do a slow flip.
10:15am: Greer picks up the John 14 thread and uses it as the basis for his eulogy. I'm perusing the tastefully printed 2-sided card-stock program. Again, very concise and without any embellishments: no photo and no biography (other than a brief paragraph detailing his age, address and those left to "cherish his memories"). I look over the "family" section and realize that the only ones on the "family row" are Ms. Janie, Gwen, Debbie, their kids and a young woman I don't know. Hey, wait a minute - where are the sons? Where's the brother? (He's in a nursing facility). Grandkids?? Awwww SHOOT! Ms. Janie done sliced up the guest list!
10:20am: Greer is passing the baton back to Howard Hill to wrap this one up. HH quietly gives the directives for the processional to Evergreen Cemetery. Everybody up, coats on, c'mon let's move it, move it.
10:25am: I'm on my way back to the Maxima which has scarcely had time to get cold. That's right folks - a new black people's funeral record has been set - 25 hot minutes from beginning to end! This made a Catholic funeral look like a wait in line at People's Bank on payday! I'm not even mad at 'em though. If I'd played my cards right, I could've just parlayed this one into my morning 15 minute break. But it's all goody. Uncle James deserved the time - and Gwen absolutely does. I put an imaginary cigarette to my lips and blow a plume of cold "smoke" into the chill air. This puff's for you Uncle Pete.
.....As an addendum, in honor of this funeral and it's perfunctory nature, I've been informed that Howard K. Hill is going to offer this type of service and call it: "The Janie Busch Package." Sign me up.
Gwen, my girly-girl is also the supervisor for my hustle. She's 10 years my junior but from the time I met her (some 15 years ago?) she's always impressed me with her sharp mind and even sharper sense of humor. She gets it. On Thursday, December 4, 2008 I had to call her to dot some i's & cross some t's regarding time cards and she was instructing me on the fly. Her mom's brother, "Uncle" James Abraham had been living with her and her 10 year old son Blake for the past 3 years or so. A polite gent whom you seldom saw, but certainly smelled - the man smoked like a chimney which resulted in Gwen's home smelling like "The Dirty Bird" at 1am on a Friday night. We jokingly called him "Uncle Pete" from the movie, 'Soul Food' - tucked away in his own room, coming out for meals or to use the facilities and presumably, to get a fresh pack. Just cool.
Uncle James would often hold down the fort for her when she was out on one of her many missions: adjunct professor at the local community college, choir director at her church, co-director for a community choir (which I also sing in), her grind for the city of New Haven, sorority meetings, DJ'ng a local gospel radio show, helping to take care of her sick father and the list goes on. Thinking about what Gwen does makes me tired. Knowing he was in the house with her son gave her a sense of security when her missions kept her out later or longer than expected. It is hard work being a responsible single parent. It really does take a village.
As we wrapped up our business on the phone, she called out: "Uncle James? Uncle James? - Willie, I've been calling him all day and he ain't answerin' his phone." I hear her making her way through her house to his room. "Damn Willette, he's dead".
Monday, December 8, 2008
9:55am: The funeral is being held right at Howard K. Hill Funeral Services on Chapel St., a converted Georgian manse that used to be home to a white funeral home back in the day. This section of Chapel St. has undergone several re-inventions starting in the 60's after the riots. The stretch has been home to church's, bars (the Swingin Doors!), beauty salons, a furrier, chinese take out, community outreach centers and homes. Howard Hill is a young man who by all accounts and my own observations does an absolutely stellar job in body prep not to mention his level of professionalism and courtesy to the bereaved. As a bonafide funeral-goer, he gets top grades from me. He's recently begun renovations on his facility and was at the door personally greeting as I stepped into the foyer on this bracingly cold New England December day. Someone tapped me from behind as I extended my gloved hand to Howard and from every angle my eyes could take in, the place was near capacity. I turned to see who'd tapped me, thinking I was in someone's way already. It was AJ, Gwen's BFF, who like me, had dipped out of work to come support G and her family. He blew me a kiss as he huddled near the door and whispered he couldn't stay because he had to get back to work/court. I signed the guest book and started picking my way through the maze of doorways until I saw a free seat. Sticking my head into the main parlor/viewing room I caught Gwen's sister Debbie's eye and asked if it was too late to view the body. She said I still had time and although I don't really need to look at dead people, I really did need to take a look at Howard's handywork. Uncle James in a natty light grey suit and tie, eyeglasses and a crisp edge up looks like he's taking a nap after (or during) Sunday morning service. Another Howard Homerun!
I lean over to Gwen's mom, Ms. Janie to offer condolences. Ever the lady, completely composed and rocking a ranch mink wide brimmed cowboy hat, she thanks me and pecks me on the cheek. She is class. I want to be like Ms. Janie when I grow up. I skidaddle to my seat because Howard's on the scene closing the casket and the Busch women's pastor, Daylan Greer of the "Great Beth El AME", is about to get started.
10:05am: There's no processional, Pastor Greer is following the very succinct program per Ms. Janie's instructions, offering a pretty loudmouthed prayer of comfort then introducing "Minister Jenkins" who proffers Old (Ps. 23) and New (John 14:1-6) Testament readings.
10:10am: Gwen's singing! She's a trooper and like her mother, totally composed. She's a better woman than me on two fronts: she's been able to sleep in her house (with company) and she's got her heart far enough out of her throat to sing. And sing she does - the "new" funeral classic, "I Won't Complain". It's the new millenium version of "His Eye is On the Sparrow". She begins a capella and whoever's on the keyboard plucks around until they find her key - which is - different. As any singer worth their salt does, she "personalizes" the lyrics (i.e.: changes the words) for Uncle James. I listen contentedly while taking in the new Howard K. Hill Funeral Services decor. Off- peach stucco walls with white trim and either dusky mauve or brick-colored drapes. Hmmmm. Not sure I would've put that color combo together. A candle burns a scent on one of the fireplace mantles that's making my stomach do a slow flip.
10:15am: Greer picks up the John 14 thread and uses it as the basis for his eulogy. I'm perusing the tastefully printed 2-sided card-stock program. Again, very concise and without any embellishments: no photo and no biography (other than a brief paragraph detailing his age, address and those left to "cherish his memories"). I look over the "family" section and realize that the only ones on the "family row" are Ms. Janie, Gwen, Debbie, their kids and a young woman I don't know. Hey, wait a minute - where are the sons? Where's the brother? (He's in a nursing facility). Grandkids?? Awwww SHOOT! Ms. Janie done sliced up the guest list!
10:20am: Greer is passing the baton back to Howard Hill to wrap this one up. HH quietly gives the directives for the processional to Evergreen Cemetery. Everybody up, coats on, c'mon let's move it, move it.
10:25am: I'm on my way back to the Maxima which has scarcely had time to get cold. That's right folks - a new black people's funeral record has been set - 25 hot minutes from beginning to end! This made a Catholic funeral look like a wait in line at People's Bank on payday! I'm not even mad at 'em though. If I'd played my cards right, I could've just parlayed this one into my morning 15 minute break. But it's all goody. Uncle James deserved the time - and Gwen absolutely does. I put an imaginary cigarette to my lips and blow a plume of cold "smoke" into the chill air. This puff's for you Uncle Pete.
.....As an addendum, in honor of this funeral and it's perfunctory nature, I've been informed that Howard K. Hill is going to offer this type of service and call it: "The Janie Busch Package." Sign me up.
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