Over the last few weeks I’ve had several relatives cross over. From flesh to spirit, they transformed into something bigger than their bodies; they became ancestors. Sadly, in
the month of November, it has traditionally been difficult for me ever since my father passed away, the incomparable Attorney Christopher C. Mercer. Jr., and over a decade later it hasn’t gotten any easier. Now, the recent passings remind me of how fragile and dangerous and beautiful and painful and unpredictable life is. I oscillate between my grief, for the family that has transitioned, and my gratefulness, for the time that we got to spend.
I’m sharing two pieces of writing in this month’s newsletter… one old and one new, in honor of the sequence in which these ancestors came to be. It was 12 years ago when I wrote this essay on death to my Daddy. I was trying to understand what was happening to my father and I couldn't express my feelings to anyone... but him. I read my essay to my Dad and said:
"Daddy, I don't want to depress you or make you sad, but everyone is going crazy and I need to talk to someone... I know you said that you're at peace [with dying] and I respect that, however I am not at peace... I am afraid, so I just want to share this with you in spirit of understanding."
My father faintly responded, "Okay. I'm listening."
He always listened. I could tell him whatever was on my heart to say. So, I read the essay below. After reading it, my father looked at me, at the real me, and conjured these words:
"That was beautiful. I want you to read that at my epitaph. Do you know what that is?"
His question startled me so I did not answer. He continued...
"That's a funeral ceremony. I want you read that at my funeral."
Being optimistic, I told my father that I wouldn't be reading it for a long time. I kissed him and we sat in the still of that moment. He had been surviving with cancer for ten years. He was a fighter and a comeback kid! Though rough, I was almost certain that he’d recovery fully. Little did I know that those words would be some of his last.
He died four days later on November 20, 2012.
In an effort to maintain peace, my family did not want me to read this essay. They said it would be too hard on people at the funeral and that they would fall apart. I didn't agree, but there was so much going on, I elected to share a poem that I wrote for my father instead.
I still regret that…
I should have followed my heart and followed my father's request. So, on this day, almost 12 years after the anniversary of my father's transition, I want to share this with all of you. Hopefully I can make my Daddy proud and let him live through this precious memory that I have with him.
I have never given much thought to death. Death was foreign, a distant location requiring passport for passage. It was not comprehensible, for it was not something I had experienced in my own body. No matter how close to death I may have been, or those I loved, this darkness was an intangible concept that I could not process. Though I had known people who crossed over, many relatives that I was close to at some point in my life, the static of air terminating in the lungs, blood standing stagnant in the veins, systems shutting down, the body once a retainer of heart, turns colds. The circle of life completes its round, birth meets expiration and there are only phantom memories of the life that once was...
However now, at this moment in my life, my fascination with this foreign land of death was much more intriguing. It was much closer to my body.
I felt its cold and I watched, slowly, its manipulation of bodily functions. Easily breaking them down like a fresh hen on a butcher's block. Hungry for a life, death was nipping at my father's heels... His feet are always swollen with darkness. His skin flakes as it bends around the external shell of skeletal support. He coughs frequently and the hum of the reaper lulls in his chest, swallow is his breath. The man who made me is fading and I feel it. This is the closet that I have ever been to Death and I want her to find a new body for passage. I want her to leap from his lungs and splatter on the pavement, leave us be and find herself wandering through the desert of the victimless... No one to ever cross her path.
This is not how the circle works. Life must become so full of itself that the only task left is to complete the cycle and end the era of existence. This I know even though I do not fully understand the end, any ending for that matter. Death doesn't quite know how to penetrate every corner of my Daddy. She has weakened physical functions, frail his body sits, struggles to stand, slow is every action, but she has not found a way into his mind. Sharp as chef's knives, he can recite poetry, remember friends from long ago, and recount every moment in his life. What a blessing to have one's mind.
And everyday, whether it's a poem I wrote for him, family calls to check in, our canine’s bark at every buzz of the bell, whatever it may be, he finds a reason to smile. His lips part, curl tightly to his cheeks, and his eyes light with unbelievable illuminating glee. It is truly a spectacular sight, to see my father smile, even in the face of Death. Her tricky to fail and foul functions break the body only, the spirit, when resilient, remains in tact.
Life. Death. The in between. In those three sentences each creature has if their star power hits this Earth. How fully they fill in the blanks buoyed about the periods is what matters. Do I fear the unknown elements of Death? Yes, at times. Her charm presented as a way out of pain, or a gateway to glory may be enticing to some. It may be a portal to push past the paralyzing perils of the world. Who knows if it's even a bad thing. I don't know. What I do know is that the thought of losing my Daddy is crippling to my heart. He is so much of the reason I exist, so if he ceases to, I may too...
Sometimes when things are lost, personal effects or personal to the heart, recovery is difficult for there is no way to ever retrieve those items, those people, those things ever again. Never again can I replace the magnetic power of that love. It's gone. That is my hardship. I do not anticipate the day, whenever it may occur, when my father crosses over to the land of the unknown. I enjoy each day, however I cannot imagine him being lost forever. Will I ever find him again? Will we meet in Heaven, the Cosmos, beyond? Will he be as I remember him last or brand new, shining like the sun midday...
I wonder, I worry, and I pray that Death will take her business elsewhere. Allow my father to heal. Give us a few more days. Any days. Time. Time, please do not expire my father's time. But I know at any moment any body can meet the close of their circle. Life will meet Death, shaking hands and making their bond eternally clad.
So today, the "in between", I will enjoy the parting of my father's lips. I will watch him sleep in peace. Make sure that he always knows that my heart genetically and soulfully surrenders to his will. I will make him proud. Death, though inevitable, will not run or ruin my fortitude to move forward with my Life. It is hard some days, however it is so easy to smile. I will make jokes and laugh with Daddy. And when the time comes, when the cycle is complete, Daddy all that I ask is that you remember me in heaven and how I kissed your cheek when I tucked you into sleep in peace...
Attorney Christopher C Mercer, Jr , born March 27, 1924 in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, was a licesned to practice law for nearly 60 years He scored the highest on the bar exam the year he passed and received his law license on May 17, 1954, the infamous date of the Supreme Court decision, Brown vs. The Board of Education. He later served as executive director of the Arkansas Council on Human Relations and field secretary for the Arkansas chapter of the NAACP. During the “Little Rock Central High Crisis,” he served as “aide-de-camp” to Mrs Daisy Bates, counselor to the “Little Rock Nine,” and drove five of them to and from school during their first semester He was the first in many circles; among the first handful of students to desegregate the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville School of Law, known as The Six Pioneers, and the first African-American in the South to be appointed Deputy Prosecuting Attorney in 1967 In the 88 years he lived, the best job he had, and one he loved the most, was being a father.
The final piece of writing I’m sharing is a poem I wrote after the most recent relative passed away just days ago. I will always honor people through my mediums of textiles and poetry, and keep their memories safeguarded in my soul.
Death moves like fire Swiftly, bers to kindle to flam p and incinerating ev It spreads, nd claims all in its pat Charred remnants, Bones to ash, med by the dance of stand deep in my grie my face to catch my enough water to put gh prayers to comfort Everything burns, ldfire that sweeps the our family tree into a er seared rings expose still tells the story of u who can stand in the f ant on the blistered E ber that love is great e deeper than our pet ars water the leveled ur dreams will grow cestors that were clai
As I’ve been reflecting on my family, from our mother’s wombs, to where we find ourselves in the world, to our tombs, we are navigating the multitudes of magnificent journeys and Black spaces that we curate and nurture. Death will surely come, for it is a part of our sojourn. November 20, 2024 will mark 12 years after my father’s passing and he still doesn’t have a headstone. His remains deserve to be marked and honored. Even now, when anyone that knows my father and is within an earshot of hearing the last name “Mercer”, they always have something positive to say. That is the mark of a life well lived. He didn’t just belong to my family, he was an icon admired by many. As the daughter, sister, niece, grand, and cherished relative of those that have recently crossed over, and as the ED of A BLACK
SPACE it is my humble request that you will consider donating to secure a headstone for my Daddy and to provide financial relief to the many family members that have incurred expected expenses to bury our loved ones. I know that marking his grave, and the other places where my people will lay their remains, is a proper remembrance.
Being able to share something so personal and pay homage to the dead is healing. I exalt my ancestors in their loving memory and I’m committed to tell their stories for as long as I live.
