Breathing Life into Death

We die small deaths every day in Louisville. Deaths that society doesn’t acknowledge, that the media won’t report. From witnessing modern-day lynchings of our people. From being herded by redlining. From being denied housing loans east of the 9th Street Divide. From our children being robbed of their youth. From the destruction of our attempts to self-sustain on Walnut Street. As if renaming it to Muhammad Ali Boulevard makes up for the demolition of thriving Black businesses. The list goes on. Every day we watch parts of ourselves detach from our lives to protect what’s left of it. 

Death has always been an integral part of the Black community outside of trans-generational trauma. Most families have a designated person who handles the funeral arrangements and gathers everyone together for beautiful and often vivacious homegoing services. I am the child of that chosen death care worker.

My mother balanced making arrangements, cooking food, and sitting vigil as everyone mourned. Outside of watching this magic unfold around me, I’ve always been intrinsically connected to death. As a child, I predicted the deaths of loved ones, often foreshadowing the medical news my mother would receive hours or even days later. This was a heavy spiritual weight to carry as a child. I battled severe depression, self-harm, and suicidal ideation for over 10 years. Though I’ve come to see my spirituality as an extension of my understanding of death work, society taught me to be ashamed of my gifts so I treated them as a burden. So many Black folks have spiritual gifts but they are swept under the rug of diagnosis and institutionalization. Accepting my spirituality helped me to show up and hold space for marginalized communities experiencing complicated grief. This is one of the reasons why I began my journey as a Transition Doula, also known as a Death Doula.

Many indigenous cultures and spiritualities view death as a transition from one realm to the next.
It is the comma in the sentence of life, not the period.

This year I began holding Death Cafes for BIPOC. After being bombarded with a surplus of racialized trauma porn and being abandoned by the government yet again, I saw a need for Black and brown folks to find community and safe spaces to talk about our disenfranchised grief, death, and survivor’s guilt. Death work is essential to Black people. It is in our nature to celebrate transition and revere our ancestors. Western ideology has falsely conditioned us to look at death as an ending instead of a transition. This calculated social disconnect is why I intentionally use the term Transition instead of Death in my work. Many indigenous cultures and spiritualities view death as a transition from one realm to the next. It is the comma in the sentence of life, not the period. Working with clients and talking with strangers and friends about death constantly reminds me that I am not an expert in this divinity. I am simply a witness to such a tremendous transformation of being. It is an honor every time I am asked to help with any End of Life planning. It is a very intimate experience. Even though we’re taught to detach from death, we can’t detach from grief. It shows up in everything we do.

Many of us who have lost loved ones at the beginning of quarantine were not given the option of structured public mourning. Funeral homes shut down and the world came to a grinding halt. All of us have become acquainted with death this year. I’ve lost six loved ones since the pandemic began. Some here in Louisville and others back in Texas, my home state. Fortunately, I was able to attend two homegoing services, but this was not an option for everyone. There is a need to be seen mourning, to have others witness the loss and, quite literally, see the hole left in our lives — that is the very reason we have funerals. The grief only compounds the longer we wait to mourn. Finding creative ways to process grief has become essential during the pandemic.

In addition to physical deaths, we are collectively experiencing Shadowloss. This is a loss in life instead of a loss of life. We have lost jobs, savings, weddings, vacations, funerals, homes, and our sense of stability.

In addition to physical deaths, we are collectively experiencing Shadowloss. This is a loss in life instead of a loss of life. We have lost jobs, savings, weddings, vacations, funerals, homes, and our sense of stability. We have lost hopes and dreams for what 2020 could have been, which added another layer of grief many of us are still grappling with. It’s hard to even acknowledge this loss when bombarded with the statistics of those losing their lives to Covid-19, other illnesses, poverty, war, and natural disasters. So many of my friends expressed guilt for grieving what could have been a vibrant year. There is no shame in naming your loss. We all suffer from systemic oppression. It is designed to drain us of our personal and collective power and creativity. 

We die small deaths every day in Louisville. Deaths that society doesn’t acknowledge, that the media won’t report. From witnessing modern-day lynchings of our people. From being herded by redlining. From being denied housing loans east of the 9th Street Divide. From our children being robbed of their youth. From the destruction of our attempts to self-sustain on Walnut Street. As if renaming it to Muhammad Ali Boulevard makes up for the demolition of thriving Black businesses. The list goes on. Every day we watch parts of ourselves detach from our lives to protect what’s left of it. 

The phrase, “stay safe,” has become a curse disguised in sweet melody as if our safety relies on our choices and actions alone. We know it doesn’t. We’ve always known that we could be killed without warning or reason and never receive justice. Being Black in Louisville during a pandemic and civil uprising is to constantly choose between personal and collective safety. It is making space to hold grief and joy, action and rest, martyrdom, and boundaries. It is the dichotomy of wanting to feel safe at home while knowing we are not actually safe at home. What happened to Breonna Taylor can happen to me, to any of us. Just as it happened to David McAtee. Just as it happens to Black and brown folks everywhere. Louisville is but a microcosm of state-sanctioned death at the hands of White Supremacy. They want us disempowered, suppressed, and domesticated.

Our power is in grieving — personal and collective.

Our power is in grieving — personal and collective. We are left to question how to mourn physical death and how to show up for the grieving when our own emotional bandwidth has been severely depleted. All of these factors complicate grief, making it hard to prioritize mourning.

In times of escalated grief, the tools that served us before may not be the same ones we need this time. In fact, the modalities of processing grief look vastly different over the spectrum of human experience. The more well-known methods involve therapy, Maraṇasati (death meditation), and Shavasana, which is ironically called “Corpse Pose” in yoga. These avenues allow for contemplation on the nature of death and help with reconciliation. While these things have helped others live with loss, it is not the only solution.

Some of my friends have experienced visceral grounding in pole dancing; feeling their way through the pain and back into the bodies that grief detaches them from. Dancing to channel the spirit of loved ones can help you understand them in a different light. A friend of mine channeled their grandmother who had recently passed. They didn’t have the opportunity to attend her funeral, so they danced instead. My friend moved in ways they never thought to; guided by spirit and intuition. They had ghost pains in similar places where their grandmother had experienced pain and was able to work through some of it, helping both of them heal. 

Take time to ground yourself in the present moment, and place your intention behind making a spiritual connection. That’s all you need to begin. I built an altar to my ancestors. It had been weighing on my heart to do so for a long time. After my biological dad’s death in May, I couldn’t put it off any longer. For the first couple of days, I cried and distanced myself from it. Still, parts of me didn’t want to accept that he was gone and that there would be no chance to reconnect to my absent parent in the physical realm. But seeing his picture on my altar, and addressing him as an ancestor helps ground me in the reality of loss. I’ve been spending so much time at my altar. I wrote most of this essay there. I also found some closure in destruction. I channeled the anger I felt at him by smashing things into oblivion. It also helps me to sing Negro Spirituals, make comfort food,
and listen to music. 

If it helps to ground you, helps you find peace or clarity,
then work it.

Processing and grieving don’t look just one way. If it helps to ground you, helps you find peace or clarity, then work it. Holding your own ceremony is a great way to start, even if you don’t have or want an ancestor altar. Light a candle and pour a glass of water. Sit and be still. It may help to write a letter about what you feel. Address it to them, address it to yourself. Be honest about where you are and meet yourself there without judgment of what you should have done or should be doing. Do what you can, do what you feel called to do, and hold space to feel those things. Witness every emotion rising and falling, as many times as it takes. Because that’s the thing about grief - there is no time frame for when it ends. Healing isn’t a linear process, and it doesn’t stop once the funeral is over. Continue leaning into discomfort, and remember to breathe.