Funeral. Bittersweet. Memory.

My grandfather died in 1996. I have very bitter and very sweet memories around his funeral. I moved in with my grandparents years before to help my grandmother take care of him. He had Alzheimers. I have many stories about my time taking care of him. They will not go in this story. Maybe another. I am glad that I was able to do what I did for him. It started my road to caregiving.

Because I am a poet and was his granddaughter and caregiver my family asked me to read a poem at his funeral. Of course I agreed. It was maybe two nights before his funeral when the family was gathered at my grandparent's home. It was good to all be together like that. Some of my family I had not seen in a long time. I remember standing in the kitchen when my grandmother approached me. There was something private she had to say. Something serious. My grandmother, in my experience was not a very sentimental woman so I was intrigued as to what she was going to tell me. "If you gon get up there and speak, then I want you to wear a wig." Is what she said and walked away without a verbal answer.

For many, many years I wore my hair bald. It was actually pretty dope. I thought. And others did too. Clearly she did not. I was already the...different one in my family. The one without a college degree. The artist. The woman with no hair. No insurance. No money. They loved me but I was different and that difference was not always a good thing. My grandmother's request crushed me. It made me feel like she was embarrassed of me.

The funeral was going to be at the church where I grew up. The church where my grandparents had served many years. Appearances mattered. Clearly. They mattered enough for her to say that to me. I was still hurt. I told my mother. I think I told an aunt. I don't remember. I do remember that my pain was met with "Oh, she didn't mean anything by it." I was dismissed. My feelings didn't matter. Again. As if I needed more evidence to support that my feelings were irrelevant. That I was too.

I did get up there and read a poem. I did not wear a wig. Or anything on my head. I honored myself. That day Nailah was in the audience. My son's dad was there too. He was not my son's dad then. He was my boyfriend. After the funeral we hung out. I think we ate somewhere. We parked by a beach. Much of that day is a blur but I remember how supported they made me feel. How loved they made me feel. How seen and appreciated and valued. I did matter. When I look back on that day, how special they made me feel outweighed any negative feelings. It did not erase them though. My grandmother never mentioned the wig or me not wearing one. It was there for me though. And it comes up in my memory every now and then. It's one of the many memories I am not allowing to hold me. Anymore.