I haven’t written recently, because I’ve been flummoxed, not only about what to write, but also about how this past year seemed to race by as if it were just a few minutes. I’m about to turn 61, and I’ve realized that I don’t have that many “minutes” left if I live an average lifespan (78.8 years for women). I think it’s important we talk about death, including our own; it’s something every living being will experience. I would like to face mine, when it comes, with curiosity and open arms.
I’ve thought often about death since I was 11, when my grandfather died. At the funeral, my grandfather’s body was in an open casket. I was nervous about seeing him, but I noticed when I did how pale and waxy he looked, how unlike himself. My grandmother, in her grief, lifted his torso and tried to pull his body out of the coffin, while screaming, “No, John, no!” Her behavior terrified me more than death did. Once we’re dead, we don’t suffer; but those who are left to grieve suffer greatly.
I thought deeply about death at age 17 when, severely depressed, I often considered ending my life. With no support from my parents, and no professional support, I relied in part on a pact I made with a close friend who also suffered from mental illness: we would tell each other before we acted if we were planning to die. As agonizing as my depression was, I did not slit my wrists in the bathtub primarily because I knew that someone, most likely my mother, would have to clean up the bloody mess I left. In college, still depressed, I wrote in my journal, “Fuck you, Mr. Death, Sir,” after a friend of mine died suddenly and horribly. Since then, I often think about death, my own and the deaths of those I love. We have such a brief stay here in which to make an impact upon the Earth and upon each other; it’s easy to get caught up in consuming and doing and busyness and forget that our days are ticking away.
I love visiting cemeteries, particularly old ones. There, I can imagine the lives of people who once walked and breathed and hoped and despaired like me. How did this child die? He was only six. Or this girl? She was just seventeen. Who was this couple who died within days of one another? Imagine their families’ grief.
Here in Benicia, we have an old cemetery with gravestones dating back to the early 1800s. One marker bears the name Blake, my maternal grandmother’s maiden name. Are we related to these Blakes? On the east coast, or in Europe, cemeteries are much older, which I find fascinating. Some have wizened wooden grave markers that are no longer legible. I wish here in the US, we could see individual gravestones for all the Native Americans who violently died in the “making” of this country.
(FYI, through the Sogorea Te Land Trust, an intertribal women-run organization here in the Bay Area, we of European descent who live on stolen land can donate a “Shuumi Land Tax.” Based on the size of one’s house, this tax “directly supports Sogorea Te’s work of rematriation, returning Indigenous land to Indigenous people, establishing a cemetery to reinter stolen Ohlone ancestral remains, and building urban gardens, community centers, and ceremonial spaces so current and future generations of Indigenous people can thrive in the Bay Area. Shuumi means gift in the Ohlone language Chochenyo.” I have long nursed bone-deep guilt for the violence enacted upon Native Americans by my own ancestors, and the stolen land that they homesteaded; and this donation is a way for me to annually atone.)
I also read obituaries regularly, I think for the same reasons I love to walk among tombstones: to understand and imagine stories. Some strike me deeply. In a recent Chronicle obit, a kind and compassionate-looking woman died at age 94. She was born in Berlin and died of cancer in San Francisco. (Here I make a connection: Birte attended seminary in Berlin, and came to Berkeley for her Masters Degree.) The woman in the obituary was of Russian descent and emigrated to New York escaped Nazi Germany when she was eleven. Her parents must have been people of means in order to do this, as so many were unable to afford passage. And, unlike later ships that arrived at Ellis Island with refugee Jews from Europe, her ship was not turned back. She later became an artist, a feminist, and a supporter of social justice. She loved to travel, visit museums, and listen to classical music. And, she enjoyed “an occasional ice cold vodka.” I wish I could have known her; I think we could have been friends.
Another, younger Black man who recently died also has a kind face. He’s was a registered nurse at Kaiser for many years, managing the pediatric ward. He later got a Bachelor of Science in computer science, and enjoyed building and working on computers. His hobbies were sports (Giants, Warriors, 49ers), motorcycles, jazz concerts, traveling, and dogs. His obit calls him, “loving, caring, gentle, and kind-hearted.” He’s another person I wish I’d known.
I’m fortunate and grateful to have the most amazing friends, spanning generations, every one of them kind, compassionate, and devoted to environmental and social justice. They are not many, but I love each one for what they bring to this world. And I dread the time when they die, if I am still here. Emily Dickinson, a distant cousin of mine, said:
Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality. We slowly drove – He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility – We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess – in the Ring – We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – We passed the Setting Sun – Or rather – He passed us – The Dews drew quivering and chill – For only Gossamer, my Gown – My Tippet – only Tulle – We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground – The Roof was scarcely visible – The Cornice – in the Ground – Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses' Heads Were toward Eternity –