Family Therapy Remembering Nama's Funeral
Chapter 1 The Funeral The day has come Nama, the matriarch of our dysfunctional family has gone home to meet her maker. Nama was a short, dark-skinned woman with a small undefined shape, big bust and a salt and pepper afro, who definitely had a way with the men. It was said that her older sister Luanne brought Nama’s last husband from Alabama for their younger sister Dolly. Nobody knows what happened to the arrangement between aunt Dolly and this mystery man. All we do know is that two weeks after his arrival in Rayentown, Nama was planning her third wedding. Mr. Gee was his name. He was a tall, handsome alcoholic veteran with wavy white hair, whom she remained married to until his death fifteen years earlier. It was said that two years after the mystery wedding, aunt Dolly died of a heart attack while enroute with her .45 caliber handgun to the church business meeting to get either the deacons in order and resolve the ongoing problem of electing a new preacher or shoot up the place. The passing of Nama is not actually a surprise; however, the behavior of my family would lead you to believe otherwise. I can’t tell whether or not the shouts and screams are intended for memorial or relief. Although she lay there appearing angelic with peaceful white doves surrounding her head and bountiful bouquets of lilies and hibiscus surrounding her feet, she still managed to wear that familiar canting smirk on her face as if to say, “I did the damn thing and went out with a bang.” Nama had been diagnosed four years prior with a lethal illness and given less than thirty days to live. From the time she was diagnosed until her last day, four years later, Nama made her mark as an unruly resident at nursing homes throughout Rayentown, Ohio. She sued her adult daycare, accused a bus driver of neglect, my mother of trying to kill her with burnt food, my aunt of breaking into her apartment, my uncle of stealing her coffee filters, the home health aides of being rough, and, in addition to all that she refused to pay boarding fees at a nursing home for six months while accusing the attending physician of misdiagnosis and the nurses aides of stealing her Arby’s sandwiches from the refrigerator. “Now, would you believe...after all of this she was crowned resident of the month.” That award was a definite indicator that Nama wasn’t doing well. During the services I continued to gaze around the funeral home, viewing all of the spectators who had come out either to genuinely give their condolences, confirm whether or not it was true, see how well she would be put away or just eat a free meal. Whatever their reasons, Nama had so many people come out to pay their respects that at one point a girl walking from the nearby housing project had to ask the limo driver if someone famous had died. The funeral director even got a little antsy, requesting that the mourners not greet the family any longer until my Mom reassured her that she would get paid an additional $250.00. I’m two steps shy of putting my hands over my ears to muffle the loud shouts and screams bellowing from my aunt Chunk’s wide mouth. “Two funerals prior Chunk clowned so bad that she almost knocked over the casket and assisting nurse before getting stuck in between two pews.” Aunt Chunk is my mom’s four hundred pound baby-sister with a host of medical issues, who refuses to stop eating her favorite fried chicken and potato chip dinners at midnight. Although voluptuous, in size she is a light-skinned beautiful woman with long black bouncy hair and a curvy shape. There has never been a day that I can remember even when she was doing her dirt that her makeup was not perfectly applied and she was not dressed marvelously dainty. On the other hand, Aunt Chunk is a very hot-tempered and quick-to-accuse individual, who is well noted for compulsively calling off of work, fighting, lying, sleeping and stealing. It is also said that it was Aunt Chunk whose hot temper sent Nama to the nursing home for the last time. Chunk supposedly got angry with Nama the night before and started cussing and yelling at her for telling one of her oh-so-common fibs. The next morning Nama was on her way by ambulance to St. Norrine hospital. The family excused the entire incident, writing it off as a drop in Nama’s sugar. The man sitting to the left of Chunk, fanning his breath and picking his nose, is her husband Uncle Mo. Chunky has been married to Mo, “her partner in crime” for over thirty-five years. He is from a dysfunctional single parent home. Uncle Mo is extremely peculiar, a short, small-framed dark man with a nappy face, red eyes and rotten teeth who picked at his feet and played with Star Wars action figures all day, while telling disgustingly offensive jokes, blasting parliament funk-a-delic albums and reciting bible verses from the Old Testament. He actually held his own burping and farting contests one year. “What attracted Chunk to him only the Lord knows because he behaves the same as he did 30 years ago and looks the same today as he did in his 1976 prom picture”. I heard that he was allowed to drink thirty-two ounce bottles of Miller Highlife with his mother since the age of nine and that he was a senior in high school for five years. “It was against the public school laws to have a student over the age of twenty-one on the roster therefore Uncle Mo was given a high school diploma by default.” He says that he tries to attend all five-class reunions when they come around. I really can’t remember whether or not he took showers, but I do know that he never changed clothes or brushed his teeth. His teeth were so rotten that the dentist pulled them all out for free. Aunt Chunk and Uncle Mo have two children, Jontra and Paul. Paul is a tall, burly, soft-spoken, sweet and lovable fair-skinned guy, who has been prematurely balding since his early twenties. “I heard that it was his nerves, which is easy to believe. After all, Aunt Chunk and Uncle Mo are his parents.” All in all, he is a pretty stable guy with a nice wife and three well-mannered teenage children from a previous relationship. Jontra is a robustly compact dark-toned spoiled brat in her late twenties who has been a freshman in college for over ten years. She has a butt wide as Lake Erie, wears full-length blonde and blush colored weaves, fingernail polish with glitter, blue contacts and clothes twelve sizes too small. Jontra doesn’t do much talking, but from what I’ve heard, when she does go out on a limb and speak, nothing she says makes sense and/or it’s a lie. “I guess she took on some of her parents not-so-appealing attributes.” The tall, dark and dapper man with slightly wavy, slightly curly salt and pepper hair sitting in the pulpit sweating profusely is my Uncle Skooly. Uncle Skooly is Nama’s only brother. He is noted for being a boot-legged, womanizing, self-appointed preacher with no formal education in theology and an expired clergyman’s license. Nama and Uncle Skooly didn’t really get along very well; Nama says that the strain on their relationship is the result of his treating her badly when they were younger and his playing games with the Lord by saying that he is a preacher. I remember when Uncle Skooly gave his first and only sermon at a church with no plumbing, heating or lighting, and a congregation of three total. After he had dated each of the female members, he quit the business. He even gave back the monogrammed bibles that had been donated from his old drinking partner. The man with the dripping jerry curl, draped in turquoise and outdated gold nugget jewelry, wearing a tight, short-sleeved mustard shirt, and even tighter black- flooded polyester pants with white socks and black shoes consoling an unidentified woman is my mother’s oldest brother Clay. Clay is a loud mouth cackling, freeloading alcoholic, who is fashionably stuck in the late 60’s to early 70’s. In recent years Clay claims to have found the Lord. From what I’ve been told, he tried to be a Jehovah’s Witness at first until he realized they didn’t celebrate Christmas. “Uncle Clay says that’s everyone is jealous of him. My mother says that there is no reason to be jealous of him because he lives alone on a ponderosa fifty miles outside of Oklahoma City in a doublewide mobile home with a vicious dog that will be put to sleep the next time he attacks the mailman.” The 5’5” chubby fellow with a curly fade, light brown complexion and no expression on his face, taking up the entire second row, with five children and a wife two feet taller than, he is my uncle Wilton. Uncle Wilton is my mom’s youngest brother. Mom always said that Nama favored Wilt because he was a boy and the baby, but I say that Nama favored Wilt because he was never a problem and he never engaged in any of the dramatic madness like her, Chunk and Clay. Uncle Wilt was so shy that he didn’t even attend his own graduation party in the backyard of his own home. My mom said that it was all right that he didn’t attend because it gave her and her friends something to do and free food to eat. I believe that Uncle Wilt always had a dream of becoming the second Joe Jackson, but his fifth child came fifteen years too late. Aunt Chunk believes that Wilt had no serious troubles until he married his wife Nunnie. Aunt Chunk say that she can’t stand Nunnie because she has a host of mental health issues, sticky fingers and a smart mouth “if that is not the pot calling the kettle black.” At one point Aunt Chunk was accusing Nunnie of stealing lipstick from out of our cousin’s bathroom in Detroit. “Chunk has the nerve, to talk, beings that she stole an entire ham from the same cousins Thanksgiving dinner table three years later.” When Chunk stole the ham, it delayed dinner for over four hours. My elderly aunts stopped drinking their beer and smoking their generic cigarettes and started placing calls to the last people to leave the house, questioning whether or not they had seen the ham while the remaining family members cased the neighborhood in search of a possible ham bandit. After all investigations were, conducted, “The ham was found in the trunk of Chunks car.” My entire family was in an uproar. Nama was so embarrassed that she began drinking double shots of liquor; my mother was so much in shock that it took her ten minutes to shut the pie hole in her face, and my cousin was using cuss words that could never be used in scrabble. Mo was upset only because they had gotten caught. Later he confessed that he already had his $3.87 set aside for a loaf of bread and a jar of miracle whip with hopes of eating ham “samiches” all the way back to Ohio. Aunt Chunk on the other hand denies that she played any role in the brief disappearance of the ham. The average height, round, bright skinned woman with a short bobbed haircut, sitting three seats to the left, of Chunk, wearing a beautiful designer dress counting Chunks tears and peeking around periodically to see if anyone notices her crying, is my Mother Baralene. My mom, is so theatrically dramatic. Although sincere, my Moms raindrop sized tears and her uncontainable rocking appear to be well scripted and rehearsed. My mom and Nama never really saw eye-to-eye. Mom sticks to her story that Nama always blamed her for destroying her prime partying years because she had her when she was a teenager. Although it never happened and Nama adamantly denies the accusations, mom told me that Nama had initially made plans to ship her off as an infant to Philadelphia to be raised by my great-grandmother’s blind eighty year old sister, who never cleaned chitterlings properly and housed drug addicted and alcohol abusing boarders in her five story brownstone. The exceptionally dark skinned handsome fellow with a square head, silver and gray hair and a perfectly receded haircut, wearing a deep navy tailored suit, handmade leather shoes, burping uncontrollably and digging up his nose with a $50.00 handkerchief while inspecting his boogers, sitting to the right of my mother is my stepfather Wulber Wall. My mother says that Mr. Wall’s apparent mental scars stemmed from the Vietnam War. I don’t know if the war story is true or not. All I do know is that Mr. Wall is independently wealthy by receiving and cashing government checks as a sport between the first and third of each month. Nama said that no one was more deserving of a monthly mental check than Mo and Mr. Wall. Nama believed that Mr. Wall got more money on his checks than Mo because he actually worked before going out on disability whereas Mo in her eyes was just a crazy nut that hadn’t work in a pie factory. The tall dark caramel young man dressed to a tee, inappropriately laughing and pointing at my Uncle Clay’s shoes, sitting to the left of my mother, is my only sibling Frankie. Frankie insists on being the center of attention at all times and at all costs. I remember the time when Frankie played football in his Easter suit with the neighbors during my mother’s second or third wedding ceremony to Mr. Wall. My mother interrupted the ceremony several times to make “the mean face” at Frank. I can’t even remember whether or not my mother got a chance to say “I do.” My Aunt Luanne finally got Frank to join the rest of the family at the ceremony. When things seemed to have finally settled down Frank let out the loudest fart. My Uncle Mo couldn’t allow Frankie to top him in farting so he let out an even louder fart. Before we knew it we were all attending my mother’s second or third wedding to Mr. Wall and a national farting contest between Frankie and Mo. My mother and her greedy friend Lena are convinced that Frankie’s unruly behavior, as a child and an adult is a direct result of my mom and dads divorcing. For my mother, I believe the divorce theory is a cover up for more deep-rooted issues, and for Frank the theory was a permanent excuse for improper and appalling behavior. “After all my parents divorced multiple times, I wonder which divorce sent Frank into his highly staged and emotional tail spin.” Just when I thought the drama was over, I turned to the right and looked between the angel wings of the stain glassed windows only to see a caravan of Fleetwood Cadillac’s with Detroit license plates rolling in one by one. From my view I could only see the bottom of my Aunt Ida’s four-pronged cane, the skirts of a few full-length leather coats and hear the loud sobs coming from my aged aunts. At one point I heard my aunt Ida yelling out the wrong name. My cousin had to remind her whose funeral she was attending. My stomach is now starting to cramp, and I am starting to sweat uncontrollably as the readings of the expressions approach. I know that each person speaking will be putting on the star-studded performance of his or her life. My Mom, Aunt Chunk and Uncle Clay are the featured performers for this soon to be ten-minute play. After the six bodied, out-of-tune choir, made up of three senior citizens and the grandchildren they’re raising, finish singing, “I cried my last tear yesterday,” the expressions will begin to be read. Knowing that she is first on the roster to speak, Aunt Chunk doesn’t waste anytime falling back with her head reaching to the next row, her left arm stretching as far north as it will go, shaking a handful of dry crumbled up tissue in the other hand and hollering, “I really did love her.” Her piercing shouts were so exaggerated at one point that my Aunt Ida sent the nurse’s aide to tell Chunk to shut the hell up and stop acting like a fool. “Aunt Ida firmly believes that Chunk was the reason Nama had her last sugar attack.” It has taken over twenty minutes to get Chunk settled down enough to sit on the end of the bench. Getting her to stand is going to be almost impossible because, in addition to her being so distressed about Nama’s passing, Chunk chronically complains about her legs not having good circulation. I’m thinking to myself, “Would someone please acknowledge the enormous artificial effort she is putting into her performance? Then maybe we can move on with the services.” As the congregation held back their applause Chunk makes it to her feet. Cautiously wobbling to the altar, Chunk knew that she couldn’t afford to clown while climbing the stairs to the podium because she didn’t want to roll down the steps and get stuck under the pews as she had done at our previous family funeral, so she took advantage of her last five-minutes of fame while approaching the stairs by making her final breakdown, howling aloud with her mouth wide open and hollering “My Mama” while simultaneously holding her heart and hip. Finally, Chunk is on the stage without a tear in sight, holding a yellow piece of notebook paper with writing on both sides. Chunk’s expressions were a combination of grammatical errors, lies and self-soothing explanations. Ma were the best ma a girl would ask foe. I did not get mad when she treated Wilt and Clay better then she ever would treat me. I didn’t get mad when she wouldn’t let me stay with her each time me and Mo got evicted. She was tough and I would just walk away and smile because I knew that that was in her mature. I went on family leave from my job for Ma and I didn’t get mad when she wouldn’t pay me. And I really did make her veil for her last wedding she just didn’t remember, blessed her heart. Ma was so nice that she got me some drapes, and I didn’t even pay her for them, and I charged more money on her credit card without her consent and she just laughed. Ma didn’t’ even get upset when I would oversleep and not be up to let the health aides in to get her out of bed and washed up. Ma didn’t even care when I stole four packs of pork chops from her deep freezer or when I punched her husband in the lip. Ma didn’t even get mad when I yelled at her so bad and sent her sugar sailing sky high. Before she passed, she admitted to me that she really didn’t think Mo was the one stealing her coffee filters even though he was the only one with a key, and she also admitted that she knew I hadn’t broken into her apartment and stole some of her two-dollar bills. She still, however, believed that Bara tried to kill her with burnt food though. Ma was a sweetened heart that will be missed. I know that she knew that I needed a living room set and some sturdy beds, but if she left those pieces to Wilt or Clay, I wouldn’t mind because my Ma was the best ma a girl could ask foe. Chunk looked up from the yellow notebook paper and began to stare into the speechless crowd of people fanning their programs to keep themselves cool while at the same time attempting to hold back their expressions of disbelief. Chunk knew that she had gone overboard with her ridiculously animated and fabricated speech. As Chunk made her way back down the stairs, she must have decided to make an encore performance. When she hit the last step, the grip she had on the hands of the Deacons guiding her grew intense, and before we all knew it, the howling and golf- ball-size tears had resurfaced. Chunk began to beckon for the funeral director, insisting that the casket be reopened. When her request was denied, Chunk began to pry open the casket while yelling “You can’t keep me from my mama.” In seconds Chunk had completely pried the casket, open and thrust her meathead against Nama’s chest. As she shook the casket Chunk’s force was so great that Nama’s body began to shift to the left and the blankets began to rise above her feet. I believe that if Nama could have she would have told Chunk to “stop clowning and close the damn casket so that she could get the hell out of here.” Chunk’s son Paul was finally able to get her under control enough to escort her slowly down the aisle to the back of the church where members of the nurses guild were waiting with intent to console her with a half empty box of facial tissue and a tall glass of lukewarm water. Chunk’s conscience must have been eating away at her at that moment because it was said that Chunk was in the back explaining to the nurses why she and her daughter Jontra had gone into Nama’s apartment before she had expired and removed all of her valuable possessions, illegally forged her name on binding documents, cashed unauthorized checks and purchased luxury items in her name. Nama’s attorney is currently serving time in prison for an unrelated case, but my Mom and uncles are determined to get to the bottom of the missing monies out of Nama’s bank account and the recently approved unsecured credit cards and cell phones applied for in her name that began to surface a few weeks prior to her passing. My mother later told me that Chunk had carried on so long that her stomach began to bubble, so she decided to go to the restroom. She was just getting comfortable on the stool when she heard Uncle Skooly calling for her to do her expressions. In a panic Mom said that she rushed to clean herself up quickly but didn’t know until she was nervously strutting down the aisle that the slightly damp tissue was stuck in between her pantyhose and draws. She was so afraid of smelling like pee or having a wet spot on her dress that she remained standing the duration of the service even after repeatedly being asked to sit down. Unlike Chunk, my mother memorized her expressions and if she didn’t want to tell a lie, she would just hum or follow the white-lie up with a “yes Lord.” Therefore my Mom’s expressions were filled with hums and “yes Lords.” My Mom was now standing at the alter, facing the crowd rubbing her hands together, wiping her forehead and clearing her throat. My mother was a wonderful, “yes, Lord.” Ma never spoke badly, “yes, Lord” about anyone. She was faithfully at church every (hum…). She was always nice to (hum….). Every nursing home in Rayentown loved Ma as a resident “yes, lord.” Ma always loved to see me and Chunk coming, “yes Lord.” Ma never gave any of us a hard time “yes Lord.” Ma was a soft- spoken, chipper, truthful, “yes Lord,” individual (hum….). After Mommy was finished she tilted her head back as far as it could go, looking straight up at the ceiling either to pray in silence or check to see when the lightening bolt would be striking the roof. My Uncle Clay was so anxious to get his turn at the mike that he didn’t even notice that my mother was still standing at the podium when he grabbed the microphone from her. As Clay whisked pass the nurse and preacher, smelling like stale beer and week-old potato salad the crowd began to whisper aloud while expressions of awe settled on their faces. Beings that Clay was not present but a quarter of the twelve years Nama was ill, his expressions made no sense and were filled with his personal opinions, accusations, verbal attacks and lies. My mama was an angel that everybody loveded. She was rich and had good insurance. She never made anyone mad because she was a good woman in the community. I never remember a day that my mama was mean. She just meaned what she said. Mama was fair to all her kids. Chunk almost killed Ma twice and Ma just kept given a lot of stuff to Chunk with no problem. Bara was an idiot who would get up every night and get Ma into the bed before going to work on the midnight shift, take her food and wash her up when she had accidents. Bara was so dumb that she would try and pick Ma up herself out of the wheelchair and take her to church. I was not present to help at all, but when I did come home, I wouldn’t do nothing for Ma because I loveded her so. I showed my love by drinking all of ma’s beer and liquor and talking about Bara and Chunk’s shortcomings. Ma and I had a field day talking about all of the stupid things Bara and Chunk did for her like spending the night and running her errands daily. I am perfect because I worship both of my fathers God and Jehovah. Mama was so proud that I was the only one of her kids to wear nugget and turquoise jewelry on every finger everyday and marry a woman with a jerry curl and two associate degrees. Ma was proud when I found all of my illogitomat kids around the USA and had them all come and spend the night with her and eat up all of her food and drink up her liquor. I have a flat bed waiting right now at my mama’s apartment that I spent big money on to tote all of her belongings back home with me just like I did when she moved from Boxford Street five years prior. I’m not jealous because Ma loveded me so much more than she loveded Chunk and Bara, so when I take home all ma’s belongings and not give anything to my siblings, I know in my head that my mama and my God would want it that way. Cause I loveded her and she loveded me. As Clay stepped away from the podium with a full body motion he shook his tight suit jacket and shrugged his shoulders while wiping the sweat from his face. Clay had in eyes set the record straight. All of the theatrics has set the entire ceremony back over three hours. With no more time to spare, everyone is forced to read Nama’s error filled obituary that was selfishly prepared by my Mom and Chunk, quickly and silently before proceeding to the family cars that awaited us for the seven mile ride to the gravesite. The obituary read: In Loving Memory of Namalean Jean Larson-Carson-Davis-Thomas Inc. Mother of four, Wife of a few, Beneficiary, Grandmother & Great-Grandmother to many. Hard worker indeed for she had plenty of mouths to feed. Lived and loved a good life. Attended church occasionally, partied frequently. Namalean will be remembered by family, friends and foes the same. Her Mother, Father and a couple of husbands preceded Namalean in death. (Chicken parts, string beans, potato salad and a slice of white bread will be served in the church kitchen after services.) The reality of this entire event didn’t seem to have smacked anyone until that moment the funeral director began to roll Nama’s casket to the back of the church where she would be transferred to the brand new black Cadillac hearse that was already running. I view funerals as near death experiences. It’s at these closing moments that you realize that life is too short to waste on madness. Cherishing life and the individuals in your life suddenly become more important than ever. Today we said good-bye to Nama’s physical and said hello to her spirit. Anything we forgot, refused or wanted to say to Nama from this point on will have to be communicated strictly through prayer. My body got numb as I witnessed the sincere tears that where rolling down many faces and heart, weakening screams that were bellowing from many mouths of individuals who would have never under normal circumstances lost their composure. After Chunk argued with my senile aunt about which family car she was to get into, and a flower girl about which spray she wanted, the family proceeded to the gravesite. The love, respect and support was abundant on this day because even though it is a bone chilling, tear jerking ten degree’s outside, a caravan of over fifty cars still trailed the family cars to the cemetery. That’s me (Mickey) the short, brown toned woman with a red nose, frozen tears, short semi-curled hairstyle and muddy suede shoes standing in between my Mom and Frankie, watching the preacher bless Nama’s grave. Although major drama has surrounded me all day, I was still able to reflect on the good times I had shared with Nama, how I truly felt about her and the ways she had positively impacted my life. I lived with Nama a good portion of my childhood however we didn’t develop a harmoniously respectful relationship until my adult years. I admired her determination and strength. She is one of my heros. She was a successful social service worker for over thirty years, the only woman I knew that could walk away from every divorce a financial champ, and she was able to successfully declare herself beneficiary to any senior citizen’s estate that stayed in her home longer than twenty-four hours. It is also rumored that Nama had signed a multi-million dollar lawsuit judgment stemming from the bus driver neglect incident prior to her last day. As I say my final good bye and remove a stem from the spray of carnations that sit atop Nama’s casket, my heart is filled with honor knowing that the love and respect I had for my grandmother was shared by many. I thank God for the time allotted for Nama to grace this universe. Her spirit will eternally dwell within our souls, as she will be sadly missed. The End
Copyright © 2006 Mickey Bryant |