My aunt died by suicide. And being in a black family, you take that shit to the grave.
I was very young when the funeral took place. I remember it being an extraordinary event because all of my Dad's brothers were present. I didn't know my Aunt Sharon at all. If I ever met her, I was too young to remember. I remember it being a very "hush" funeral. I don't recall if there was even a sermon. But what I do remember is that it was one of the few times that I saw my Dad cry. My Dad's very light hearted (bordering on aloof). Even as kids, nothing really phased him. But I remember seeing my Dad hang his head in this stifling (as I write this, I remember it being hot as hell in this church. Is the Devil himself in here?) and he cried. He cried as if defeated.
Much later in life I learned what actually happened to my Aunt Sharon (I guess someone went to the grave the day I found out the full story). I'm going to try to paint a picture for you of her:
Sharon Davenport. African American woman. The meat-of-pecan skin. Late-40's in the 2000's. Graduate of Spelman. Master's Degree from NC Central. Paralegal. From the story that was told to me, she lived in Durham, NC when a fire broke out. She was found in the closet. My Mom, wanting to know why a person who died in a fire would be not have a closed casket funeral, and she didn't need it. She was a beautiful corpse, untouched by the flames. Prior to this incident, there was suspicion of drug abuse, but no proof from any family member. And apparently she was estranged. A dentist friend of hers called the family to ask that they check on her as she was in decline. Also, she got the letter that she passed the bar just before her death. That's a bitch, right?
While I didn't know my Aunt Sharon I try to imagine her life and what would have led up to her making that choice to take her life. And when I think about it, what wouldn't have sent her over the edge? The pressures of a small town on a woman of color. The expectation to balance success and koiness. To abide by societal norms while trying to also be successful. The constant battle of being the right person for the next person. And all the while, with education and success under your belt, everything that everyone else wanted for you, there is still a hole. Something not filled. And that hole grows so big that you fall into it. And sometimes the darkness from the hole gets too deep and you just don't make it out.
And the real fucked up thing about it is that no one is going to remember her. Even Ancestory.com only has death certificate info (which is a whole 'nother post about access to Black genealogy history). And because suicide and mental health are still taboo by too many damn people in the world, my family doesn't talk about Sharon. I know they have memories with her. I even have a memory her. But any memories about Aunt Sharon (or any personal memories that have Sharon involved for that matter) aren't discussed.
But I really want to call up my ancestor one time because I relate to her story. I wonder what ate at her? What kept her up at night? What did she weep tears over? What mental battles did she face daily? I wonder what she would be like now? What she would think of me now from 2000? I wonder what she would be like if she was able to live her truth, whatever that may have been.
And I also wonder, could this have been me? We have the same background in upbringing, education and genetics. We share similar history of mental illness. We've both attempted suicide. And I'm not sure if this is the correct way to honor my ancestor, but because of her and what little information I know of her, I know I have to value myself above all else. All of it. I can't just pick out the good pieces and leave the rest. I have to value all of myself as an entire masterpiece. Not one piece can come without the other.
May add more to this as I find more information on Aunt Sharon. There's layers to this shit.
I was very young when the funeral took place. I remember it being an extraordinary event because all of my Dad's brothers were present. I didn't know my Aunt Sharon at all. If I ever met her, I was too young to remember. I remember it being a very "hush" funeral. I don't recall if there was even a sermon. But what I do remember is that it was one of the few times that I saw my Dad cry. My Dad's very light hearted (bordering on aloof). Even as kids, nothing really phased him. But I remember seeing my Dad hang his head in this stifling (as I write this, I remember it being hot as hell in this church. Is the Devil himself in here?) and he cried. He cried as if defeated.
Much later in life I learned what actually happened to my Aunt Sharon (I guess someone went to the grave the day I found out the full story). I'm going to try to paint a picture for you of her:
Sharon Davenport. African American woman. The meat-of-pecan skin. Late-40's in the 2000's. Graduate of Spelman. Master's Degree from NC Central. Paralegal. From the story that was told to me, she lived in Durham, NC when a fire broke out. She was found in the closet. My Mom, wanting to know why a person who died in a fire would be not have a closed casket funeral, and she didn't need it. She was a beautiful corpse, untouched by the flames. Prior to this incident, there was suspicion of drug abuse, but no proof from any family member. And apparently she was estranged. A dentist friend of hers called the family to ask that they check on her as she was in decline. Also, she got the letter that she passed the bar just before her death. That's a bitch, right?
While I didn't know my Aunt Sharon I try to imagine her life and what would have led up to her making that choice to take her life. And when I think about it, what wouldn't have sent her over the edge? The pressures of a small town on a woman of color. The expectation to balance success and koiness. To abide by societal norms while trying to also be successful. The constant battle of being the right person for the next person. And all the while, with education and success under your belt, everything that everyone else wanted for you, there is still a hole. Something not filled. And that hole grows so big that you fall into it. And sometimes the darkness from the hole gets too deep and you just don't make it out.
And the real fucked up thing about it is that no one is going to remember her. Even Ancestory.com only has death certificate info (which is a whole 'nother post about access to Black genealogy history). And because suicide and mental health are still taboo by too many damn people in the world, my family doesn't talk about Sharon. I know they have memories with her. I even have a memory her. But any memories about Aunt Sharon (or any personal memories that have Sharon involved for that matter) aren't discussed.
But I really want to call up my ancestor one time because I relate to her story. I wonder what ate at her? What kept her up at night? What did she weep tears over? What mental battles did she face daily? I wonder what she would be like now? What she would think of me now from 2000? I wonder what she would be like if she was able to live her truth, whatever that may have been.
And I also wonder, could this have been me? We have the same background in upbringing, education and genetics. We share similar history of mental illness. We've both attempted suicide. And I'm not sure if this is the correct way to honor my ancestor, but because of her and what little information I know of her, I know I have to value myself above all else. All of it. I can't just pick out the good pieces and leave the rest. I have to value all of myself as an entire masterpiece. Not one piece can come without the other.
May add more to this as I find more information on Aunt Sharon. There's layers to this shit.
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