by Angie Kratzer
There is unspoken Southern etiquette that addresses the expected behavior of White mourners. We can attend the visitation or the funeral. Any dark color is acceptable at the funeral, but the visitation (or viewing or wake) allows for casual attire. The earlier event is casual, and there is often no line, just an awkward grouping of people waiting to hug the mother or son. The funeral is muted, but there is a trend toward funny eulogies. There’s no fainting or wailing. Emotions are only visible via tissues and an occasional blown nose. That is how we funeral.
In 2009, I was working as a curriculum coach for our school system, the perks of which included sharing an office with three Black women. I was the youngest of our bunch and followed where they led.
I once followed them to a funeral.
Having been to all of three Black funerals, I considered myself a pro. One of those funerals was for a local Muslim activist, the second for one of our groomsmen, and the third for a Mason. Each was a twofer; visitation and funeral were combined into one event.
The sanctuary at that first funeral was lined with women wearing white, and I learned that they were there to catch and nurse the bereaved when they passed out from grief. Got it. The third was for a young man who had died of kidney failure while waiting on the transplant list. That sanctuary was packed, and mourners were standing all the way around the room in the side aisles. Understood. The third funeral included the sudden entrance of aproned Masons, who proceeded to the end of each pew and stood guard. Super creepy, but I grew accustomed.
There were, of course, other similarities besides being surrounded and unable to leave. There was a book to sign at each funeral, and mourners had stuck sympathy cards in each book. We got immediately in line to view the body, filed by and paused briefly, and approached the family, which was sitting on the front row in a line. Person by person, we greeted each loved one, and then we walked around to the pews, found a seat, and commenced to grieve.
These were my dry runs for what would become my very best Angie-no-you-did-not story. And this is that.
So I was ready, looking for a sign of what type of people would be surrounding the congregation this time. Nurses in white? Masons? Standard bearers? I was prepared for anything.
Understandably, I was distracted when I walked into that church with my 2009 office mates. The husband of one of my co-workers had died, and like good friends, we all went to the funeral. I drove separately because I had to attend a meeting right after, and I followed Fannie and Angela, who had come together, and we drove around for a good while looking for a parking spot. Apparently, there was more than one funeral on that block on that day. You may already see where we’re going with this.
After driving in heavy rain, we finally found the right church and the right parking lot, and we all headed up to the front door. Being confident—because, after all, I had been to three Black funerals before—I walked on in and approached the book, signed it, took a vague mental note of the fact that I did not recognize the name on an envelope someone had stuck in the book, and got in line. This line was long. And slow. So I had time to look around and search for faces I knew. None. I was the only White person in the room. It’s ok, I thought, I’ve done this before. I’ve got this routine down. The line inched forward. And forward. And forward. And I was finally about three people back from the casket.
That’s when I realized that the person in said casket was a woman.
I was at the wrong funeral. But being the only White person in the church and being the person at the casket at the front of said church, I had to commit, lean in, and grieve this complete stranger. After all, I was a pro, so I knew what to do. I stood for a few seconds and looked at the gray face and proceeded to the receiving line, where I shook hands with every. Single. Person. Down a very long pew. Halfway down, I shook hands with the very sister of the very Muslim activist whose funeral I had attended ten years earlier. She expressed surprise that I knew the deceased (her aunt, I think), and I just “mmm hmm”ed and moved on down the line. Having succeeded thus far in convincing the mourners that I was indeed there forthat funeral, I made my way down the empty-so-far aisle and, instead of finding my seat, slipped outside.
And there they were, my two co-workers, doubled over in laughter. Before even getting to the book, they had realized immediately that we had the wrong funeral and stayed outside. One said, “We tried to get your attention, but you marched in there like you owned the place, and then it was too late. We just let it play out.”
If it had not been raining, my two co-workers would have been guffawing on the grass with glee. They told me that they were headed to the other church, but I had done my grief work and had to get to my meeting.
Fannie and Angela told me the next day that when they informed the widow of my mistake, she belly laughed. Then it was worth it.
Angie Kratzer is a recovering high school English teacher turned freelance writer. The author of Musings from the Car Seat, she lives in central North Carolina with a menagerie of humans and animals.
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