To be Young, Grieving, and Black: Lessons Learned from Grief

*These names are pseudonyms to protect the privacy of the stories that are not my own.

“I’m better off dead.”

I remember my Papa shouting these words just as vividly as I remember the very eerie voices telling the neighborhood bully, Henry, in Stephen King’s “IT” to “Kill him. Kill him.” and “Kill them all.” Just as vivid as these same words crept into my own psyche.

Kill yourself. Kill yourself.

I wonder how much grief you’ve got to carry to wish for death the way my Papa did. How much war you’ve had to see. How much sadness, anger, pain, contempt, and collective memory you must carry. It must’ve been a lot because this statement (among others) was prevalent on his lips.

I am no stranger to grief. In fact, my encounters were ongoing growing up due to my biological father’s absence. Grief is typically looked at as deep sorrow caused by losing someone, often to death. But, I lost the first person I truly ever wanted, leaving me with a hole I went on trying to fill for a long time. Then, I lost the idea of what a father should and even could be to me. I lost peers too soon. Finally, and eventually, I began to experience losing pieces of me. And there wasn’t space, time held, or emotional room for these losses to exist or collide. There was just moving forward, confronting my shadow, and finally accepting that the man I wanted more “I love you”s from wasn’t the only thing buried. That it is time for me to die…to my old self…and all her old stories.

Some time ago, I sat across from *Kash, absorbing her story about a cousin that committed suicide. Listening. Holding myself together at cracks ready to become undone again. Understanding more about her journey than I ever did before. This was before we held on to each other like death had a hold of us, hoping the other wouldn’t let go. You could play Maze and Frankie Beverly for this embrace. I don’t know if we were holding on because of our separate grief or academia’s violence committed against us despite it. I just know we both needed what the ivory towers and the rest of the world weren’t giving us. What the world never gives to those young, grieving, and Black. A fucking break.

When I received the news of *Netra’s passing two weeks after *Anita told our friend group her brother had been shot, it knocked me down as if I hadn’t lost the man I knew to be a father to me just months ago. They were gunned down back home, *Netra’s mom crying on the local news making an action call for domestic violence and *Anita leaning on us, her friends, in the midst of whatever direction this loss would take her in.

The sun of grief was rising, begging me to bask in it. Shining a light on all the souls that left this side too soon. Perhaps they were on the other side of grief’s rays. Or maybe waiting to rise with the moon when it was time. Wherever they were, I couldn’t ignore them much longer. Nor could I ignore my own darkness that grief started to cast its light on. I could no longer shove the complicated relationship with my grandfather in the back of some closet with the rest of my skeletons and past lives. Nah. These were all out, waiting for my soul to open up.

To be young, grieving, and Black is to be angry about love you wish you would have received, wishful for families you do not know, scared of the very emotions the world doesn’t grant you permission to release, and persistent about showing up to spaces that make it clear you are unwanted. It is a consistent, omnipresent exploitation of your labor no matter what you are feeling or how sincere people may be when they ask ‘How are you doing?’.

But still…

You hold on to a glimmer of hope that you will find your way back to whatever version of you existed before loss. Until you realize there is no ‘back’. There is only forward with a piece of you buried in caskets under dirt, funerals you couldn’t attend, and obituaries you’ll cling to forever. There are only baby steps toward figuring out the next person you’re going to be, your new story, and how you’re going to expand in spaces meant to spit you out. There is only deeming yourself a home, deciding you’re a fixer-upper, and choosing your new interior design. Choosing what your rooms are going to look like with grief all up in it. With all of it’s sadness, anger, and fatigue.

What you gonna paint your walls?

What kinda plumbing you need?

It’s been six months since my Papa’s physical death, and grief has taught me a lot of things. About capitalistic and productivity demands regardless of angst. About a human experience that is inevitable. About the darkness of our own shadows. About surrendering to a false sense of control. And choosing purpose over perfection. The unique experience of being Black and grieving is complex. Communal. And unavoidable as a result of America’s long history of violence and oppression against Black bodies and communities. While we continue to discuss ‘equity’, ‘disparities’, and ‘holding space’, I’m concerned that we don’t talk enough about the emotional and generational toll of Black “Americans” losing loved ones, sometimes as a result of the nation’s harm. We’re just expected to live on to see another day…or rather, work another day. And there really is…no sleep for the weary.

Five Lessons from Grief

1. No one is going to choose me if I don’t choose me. When I made the decision that I would show back up to my doctoral program a month after my Papa’s death, I did so (annoyed and angry) knowing that I would need help. On my first day back, I made it clear to some of my professors, mentors, friends,;etc….that I wasn’t okay and that if I was going to make it this semester…I needed support. I needed flexibility. As a result, while uncomfortable, there were many times I cried. Cried in offices in front of my superiors. Cried in front of friends, letting myself be held. Cried on buses in front of strangers, because grief wouldn’t let me wait to get home. Grief is teaching me to choose me. All of me- my light, my dark, and my mess. And there is something gratifying about my new openness and vulnerability. I try to let people see me in a way I don’t think I ever have before- undone and not strong…but weak.

2. The world assumes you’re grieving love that is lost. Sometimes, you’re not. And that’s okay. To be young, grieving, and Black also means grieving complex relationships and family/friend/community dynamics. And it means that you’ll be faced with a lot of assumptions that your loss is compartmentalized in this entire box of ‘love’. But there’s also a whole lot of hate in that box, too. There’s anger. There’s regret, joy, guilt, and mania in this thing called grief. I’m learning to be okay with this and let the waves of grief take me with its tides. Sometimes it sweeps me under, bringing me up just in time for air. Sometimes it allows me to drift to shore just to watch the sun rise.

3. The world may also assume you’re grieving ONE loss. Often, you’re not. And that is also okay. There are countless moments when my tears run over far more than any cup. And I don’t know that they are all for my grandfather. As my journey continues, I’m finding that some of my tears are rivers that never flowed sooner. Especially when I was younger. There never seemed to be time…or space. Black grief is urgent. So, when it knocks….answer. And if you can’t answer alone (and you are privileged to do so), enlist the help of therapy, a sacred community, and/or supportive friends/family.

4. Maybe…just maybe…you’re also grieving YOU. The “YOU” you were before your grief. One of my biggest disappointments has been realizing I can’t work at the pace I did previously. I can’t push myself. The energy just isn’t there to meet the demands of capitalism or academia’s toxicity. As a result, this past semester, I asked for days off of work, struggled to attend class, and felt…like a failure. I felt imperfect, incompetent, and insecure. Grief has started pruning my perfectionism and my desire to keep up with what it means to ‘hustle’. This is by far the hardest lesson of my grief. Being comfortable uncomfortable. Resting in such an unfamiliar version of myself. Shedding a layer I’ve been accustomed to for so long- working and working. For generations, it’s all Black people have ever had to do. And even whipped if we didn’t. Perhaps one of grief’s tasks is prompting some reimagining now. Some deep, soul-stirring asking. In a world that already whips me, what could my life look like if I didn’t whip ME?

5. You can’t hurry grief. Nah, you’ve just got to wait. I’ve been to a couple of dark corners in my life. All of them were dark enough for me to never long to visit again. But, grief has no caution tape. No areas are restricted from entering. And it’s a long journey, and now I’m finding…lonely. In fact, I’d argue that this grief is the loneliest I’ve ever felt. In the beginning, people are magnificent at being supportive, and helping when needed. But eventually….their life goes on while yours either seemingly pauses and takes more twists and turns than you signed up for. Their growth continues while you? You’re in a closet trying to figure out what wardrobe fits now. Your old clothes no longer seem to work and you have no idea where to start trying to find new ones. You want to get it over with. Just buy whatever and figure it out later. Without trying it on…or seeing if you really like it. The thing is…just like finding the right fit (whether it’s clothes, relationships, or just…life), grief takes time. You can try to rush it. I TRY to rush it. I’ve journaled my life away, ignoring my emotions, and tried to grab my answers by the neck to hurry the healing. But, grief, much like my journey into academia, healing, self-love, and self-compassion, is also a marathon. And sprinting before it’s time proves to be a constant disappointment.

So, if you’re reading this…we can’t hurry grief. Nah…we’ve just got to wait.

“They don’t know that I’m dead, and my ghost is holding on.” ~ Nina Simone

Want to read more about Black grief? Check out these articles.

Laurie, A., & Neimeyer, R. A. (2008). African Americans in bereavement: grief as a function of ethnicity. Omega, 57(2), 173–193. https://doi.org/10.2190/OM.57.2.d

Understanding Black grief by Alexis Blue

The Imposition of Black Grief by Nneka M. Okona

Remember…grief can be so consuming and overwhelming, taking over every fiber of your being. Sometimes, the pain and sadness can be so intense that it can be hard to see things clearly or getting any better. You aren’t the only one. Many people say they have thought about suicide after losing someone.

This can be a common response to grief, but often people are too scared to share the depth of this response — out of fear of being judged.

If you are experiencing suicidal thoughts during your grief, remember…you are not alone. We are not alone. Thoughts are fleeting. And joy? Joy and life can be intentional and authentic choices. Choose them.