Black People Be Dying...

I just attended a wake for a colleague of mine this week. It was rough for more reasons than one. The absolute sweetest woman who worked SO hard. She didn’t seem to deserve the things that she had been through, but there are questions that we just won’t get answers to. The moments before the actual wake took place, SEVERAL of my coworkers seemed confused about etiquette, attire, and what to expect. These were people in their late 20s and early 30s, none of whom had ever seen the body of a deceased person in real life. Naturally, this baffled me. I have been attending such traumatic events my entire life! As far back as I could remember, I can recall Mahalia Jackson and an old school organ resonating over the loudspeaker of a funeral home, and the next day feeling the wind of a hand fan on my face while squished in the pew of a traditional southern Baptist church, listening to a dramatic, sweaty, long-winded eulogy. Why was this a regular occurrence for me? There was a common denominator that became a revelation to me… or more of a trend that I noticed. I had never seen a white person in that regard before that service. Every funeral, every wake, every passing that I had been involved in was that of a black person.

One thing I learned from my fellow friends at work: Black people be out here dying. I have probably said it before in previous posts, but I have a pretty extensive family history of just about every bad and evil disease, mentally and physically, that you can name. My sister and I are in trouble on both sides. My mom alone predisposed us to a medley of diabetes, neuropathy/neurodegeneration, hypertension, and high cholesterol. That doesn’t include the cancer and aortic aneurysm that her parents lost their lives from. 

People have so much to say about my thousands of gym posts on social media, or just the fact that I go as often as I do. I don’t care! I am fighting a swarm of infirmities that are 85-95% lifestyle-related. When my mom became rapidly and violently ill, an older cousin of hers came to visit her during her 26-day hospital stent. She expressed that all of the issues she and my mom were experiencing during recovery (fluctuating sugar and blood pressure) just simply came with age. “That’s just what happens when you get old; all these things just start falling apart”. I don’t agree. They’re not an inevitable part of life. That is an old school mindset. They didn’t know any better. If there is any way I can add some years onto my life, this lifestyle change is definitely one. That doesn’t mean I won’t step outside and possibly get hit by a bus, but it diminishes the likelihood of premature death as much as I can help it. It helps me regulate my mental health also, which I have to fight against thanks to Dad’s side (hey endorphins!!!). That generation didn’t know to get up and move, or to stop deep frying literally EVERYTHING, or sopping it up in until it drips in butter. Mom told me it could have been carried down from slave days where we had to eat the scraps after Massa ate like kings. That is why we tend to be raised on odd animal parts like pig and chicken feet, chitterlings (also known as CHIT-LINS), and other disturbing “treats” while our white counterparts ate the ham. These issues are so heavy in the black community not because we just drew the short end of the stick, but because we eat (and apparently may have always eaten) like straight BASURA. The trash is delicious, don’t get me wrong, but all that’s good just ain’t always good FOR you. It absolutely warms my heart to see that so many young and black people are taking their mental and physical health seriously. Check my hash tags on Instagram for some melanin motivation!