Black Families at Funerals Funny cousinal Video
Instead of attending my best friend's funeral, I sat on the cold linoleum floor in the airport in Medellín, Colombia. My flight had been delayed numerous times since I arrived at the airport, and I was completely alone — utterly devastated beyond what I could comprehend and communicate.
My friend, Precious, had come to be a mainstay in my life. We met in graduate school nearly a decade ago as fledgling writers seeking more for our lives and our careers. Precious provided a place of emotional and spiritual refuge for me, and I could share the depths of my soul with her that almost no one else had the privilege of knowing. So, it was particularly ironic that when I most needed to reach out to someone who understood how I was feeling, no questions asked, I couldn't call her.
I'd found out about her death in the most awful way possible — via email. A graduate school listserv we were both subscribed to sent a note to every single student who'd ever attended the program we'd met in years earlier. Like most people, I check my email ritualistically, to file things away or delete them. I didn't expect to find out my best friend died. Learning of her death in this way was traumatic, and left me scarred for months afterward.
But as I sat on that cold airport floor, feeling more hopeless and morose as the minutes passed and other passengers gathered in hushed huddles around me, my mind drifted to memories of funerals. The itchy pantyhose and somber black dresses, the eulogies that ran far too long, the performative displays of sadness complete with yelling and passing out. What I recall most vividly, what has become central to knowing what grieving feels and looks like, however, is the food.
For many black families, food is an integral part of the bereavement process. Platters start arriving once news of a loss spreads through a community or as the evening of the wake approaches — casseroles and pasta bakes in easily reheatable aluminum pans; buckets of fried chicken from KFC, Popeyes or Church's with baked beans and pasta salads; sweet treats like red velvet cake or banana pudding. And soon, aunties, cousins and family friends argue over who will get to provide edible comfort to the grieving family at the repass following a funeral.
When my maternal grandfather died in 2011, I could talk about the drama that ensued at the funeral with numerous attendees or how anxiety-ridden I was that I was selected to give the eulogy as the writer in the family. Instead, I'd rather focus on my sensory reflections of what I ate at the repass at the fellowship hall of a church that emitted zero warmth — fried chicken, green beans a little mushy with hunks of ham hock, potato salad, yeast rolls, styrofoam cups full of properly sweetened iced tea and slices of pound cake for dessert.
When my great-grandfather died when I was a teenager, the memories surrounding his service and interment at the burial ground escape me. But I can easily call to mind descending into a cramped church basement where the service was held and feasting on barbecue chicken, collard greens, mac and cheese, deviled eggs, and sweet potato pie. After spending mere moments in that basement you were damp and sweaty but your belly was full, your spirit a little lightened after hours of feeling weary and in disbelief.
Nothing can prepare you for loss. And often nothing can quite placate how grief lulls, reaching peaks and guttural valleys of vulnerability. But food can be a balm. It can offer solace. It can ease the sorrows even if for a little while. That tangible tenderness was what I ached for when I sat on that cold airport floor in Medellín as my flight was further delayed and I felt even more alone.
Funerals can be immensely draining and downright triggering. But I knew more than missing the awkward exchanges with my friend's family members, many of whom I'd never met, there was something bigger that I'd missed out on by not making it to her homegoing service. I've often wondered as I've grieved if I would have been better off experiencing the hurt and pain of her funeral, just to break bread with those who loved her as much as I did. Because, as I've found in numerous instances, the practice of eating beloved foods surrounded in fellowship with a community drowning in grief, sadness and longing, is also the thing that can heal.
Nneka M. Okona is an Atlanta based food and travel writer. Follow her on Twitter @afrosypaella
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Source: https://www.shondaland.com/live/a28496882/black-funeral-food-traditions/
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