DURHAM - Duke University Professor Karla FC
Holloway, a scholar of African-American literature,
has wondered for years about the special nature of
death and bereavement in the black community.
Why are funeral homes such prominent
businesses? Why are funerals often elaborate,
performancelike rituals?
The answer, she found after a decade of study, is
that African-Americans have been conditioned to
anticipate death -- death that often comes suddenly, violently and too soon.
"In black death," Holloway explained, "we meet our end, in great measure in this
country --and have, throughout the century -- because of our color rather than
because of our conduct."
In her new book, "Passed On: African American Mourning Stories" (Duke
University Press), Holloway traces the traditions of the black funeral business in
the 20th century.
But what began as an academic cultural history became a painfully personal
story as well. The prologue of "Passing On" is Holloway's own mourning story.
Her son, Bem, sentenced to 95 years in prison for the rape and stabbing of a
Raleigh schoolteacher, was shot dead in June 1999 as he escaped from a prison
work detail.
That day, as her family tried frantically to get details from prison officials about
Bem's death, their television broadcast live video of a white sheet shrouding his
body in a Northampton County cotton field.
Holloway clipped a lock of his hair before he was cremated. She remembers
sitting in their church, listening to the funeral sermon, not wanting the comforting
words to end.
After her son's death, finishing her project on African-American death seemed out
of the question. How could she return to such a painful subject? Eventually, she
felt she had to continue.
"The book pulled me back to it because that was my safe space," said Holloway,
a Kenan professor of English and dean of the humanities and social sciences at
Duke.
Writing helped her connect with the memory of her son, whose horrible crimes
had thrust the family into the public eye. She felt different about a subject she had
long studied from a distance.
Holloway and her husband had adopted Bem at age 4 after he was abused in a
series of foster homes. He later developed mental illness. She did not excuse her
son's crimes, but she saw his tragedy as part of the history of untimely and often
violent death in African-American culture. She knew now that the history was real,
that her theory was real.
The funeral industry
For 10 years, Holloway studied every facet of the "death care" industry. She
interviewed morticians, doctors, hospital chaplains, casket makers,
embalming-chemical salesmen and grieving families. She combed archival death
notices. She went to a funeral directors' convention in Las Vegas, traveled to a
Texas funeral history museum and talked to students of mortuary science.
Holloway even studied the paraphernalia of African-American death: the fans that
tastefully advertised funeral homes, the Kente cloth-lined caskets, the badges
associated with fund-raising burial societies.
She found that black funeral traditions had developed differently because of the
ways many African-Americans died throughout the last century -- whether by
lynching, tuberculosis outbreaks, medical malpractice or, more recently, gang
violence. African-Americans share a keen sense of vulnerability, she said.
"Death out of time for African America has always been a dimension of our
culture," Holloway said. "And so if the experience and practice of African America
has been the death of a child, or a mother or father in their prime -- in horrific
circumstances as well -- then certainly these are occasions for great emotion and
difficulty.
"And I think the occasion sort of met the ritual at one moment."
The ability to unleash their grief and anger in the protective setting created by a
trusted funeral director helped black mourners maintain resiliency and regain
hope, she said.
Traditionally, participation by the congregation was expected, and the funeral took
on a theatrical air. Touching or kissing the body became an integral part of the
ritual. Sometimes, sororities and fraternities performed ceremonies around the
open casket.
"Our people like to put on a good show" was the common refrain among members
of a national association for black morticians.
Services lasted for hours, usually on the weekends. Paying attention to the clock
was disrespectful, Holloway said, as was bringing store-bought food to the wake.
The numbers of shiny, limousinelike cars in the funeral procession became
important symbols of respect.
Holloway conducted a survey of assumptions about the differences between black
funerals and white funerals. "Almost to a person," she said, "white respondents
talked about the relative quiet and calm at white funerals. And black respondents
talked about the importance of showing emotion."
Profit and talent
Beyond the cultural traditions, funerals became big business in the black
community. Funeral home owners were included among Ebony magazine's lists
of the richest blacks in America.
Holloway came to the subject with some cynicism about the profit motives of the
funeral industry. But in the undertakers she met, she found proud business
owners who cared about family and community. Often, they possessed special
talents.
"Black death is often a violent death and a disfiguring death," Holloway said.
"Throughout the century, black morticians have had to be more skilled at
restorative arts than white morticians, because the viewing of the body is
particularly important in the black community."
Holloway's own family connection to the business was a starting point for her
research. An uncle ran a funeral home in Kentucky, and her father held a degree
in mortuarial sciences, though he became a school administrator instead.
Part of Holloway's mission was to record black funeral customs that are falling by
the wayside.
Like every other business, the funeral industry is becoming more corporate.
Funeral services are shorter these days, often timed to coincide with the workday
lunch hour. Younger black Americans are choosing services based on
convenience rather than family loyalty -- some are just as happy to go with a
white-owned funeral home.
"It's in many ways a generational thing," Holloway said.
Holloway is not sure she has fully dealt with her son's death. But the book has
helped her know her grief.
She said she had to include the funeral sermon for her son, "The Promise of Hope
in a Season of Despair," and she dedicated the book to Bem.
"I knew long ago, if I was going to finish this book, he could not not be there,"
Holloway said. "And then I saw I needed to finish the book so that he could be."
Staff writer Jane Stancill can be reached at 956-2464 or
janes@newsobserver.com.
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