You find your grandmother's funeral program and it's been twenty-two years since she died. You were a little girl then so you didn't know much of her other than she loved the fuck outta you, yall had matching black and purple Jordans, and she had a powerful set of lungs on her.
A collection of Bible verses greet you when you open the pages, as well as her obituary. Desperate to recover some shred of a memory to connect you with the core of your ancestor you read–only to find paragraph after paragraph detailing the services your grandmother performed, cities she lived in, churches she attended, reverends she'd listen to faithfully week after week.
You come up for air, hurting even more for some connection to your matriarch. You're a woman, now, and you need to know anything about what kind of woman your grandmother was. Instead the names of Black men in White collars are given more attention than the ways your loved one manifested when she wasn't laboring for others.
A collection of Bible verses greet you when you open the pages, as well as her obituary. Desperate to recover some shred of a memory to connect you with the core of your ancestor you read–only to find paragraph after paragraph detailing the services your grandmother performed, cities she lived in, churches she attended, reverends she'd listen to faithfully week after week.
You come up for air, hurting even more for some connection to your matriarch. You're a woman, now, and you need to know anything about what kind of woman your grandmother was. Instead the names of Black men in White collars are given more attention than the ways your loved one manifested when she wasn't laboring for others.
When you're forced out of your job, the one you were really good at—too good at, you search for meaning anywhere. You think perfection will save you even though being twice as good made them dispose of you.
Faultlessness will not be your salvation. Appealing to white supremacy will not save you. The master's tools are especially useless when the house is on fire.
When you transition, may you be remembered as a beautiful, loving soul. May those that remain tell not just of how you loved others, but how you loved yourself. May they affirm that you chased what truly mattered and found your humanity in the joy and sorrow and uniqueness this brief existence gifts us. May they extol how you created and struggled and communicated and communed with this world and its many creatures.
So you walk, now, feeling like you're already dead. Like it's Valentine's Day on Earth and your partner is still alive and reliving memories of you that bring a smile to their face. And the montage plays on but you move forward directing, acting, trying—deciding what memories you want to leave behind.
May we all be remembered for who we are, and not just a tally of deeds.
Dedicated to Georgeann