Long post coming up.
For all of the people who are wondering what name to give their dance competitions, or how to teach equality in a partner dance, or debating about codes for spaces, please check out Norma Miller’s song to her mother, after you’ve read this.
Thoughts from this morning…
Today, 2 months ago, Friday 25th August, 3 weeks to the day of her birthday after my friend was given the final prognosis of the cancer that had taken over her body, Sharon Charles died.
A month later on the 29th September, we attended her funeral. She was cremated as per her wishes.
She shared the news on the day of her birthday (4th August) via our school class group WhatsApp. I was in Herrang at the time. She delivered the news with her usual blunt tone which followed a stream of Happy Birthday wishes, cake, kisses and champagne emoticons.
Sharon typed:
“Thanks guys I just came back from the hospital and it’s real bad news I got a couple weeks. Thanks for your praise I will fight to the end”
I knew she wasn’t joking, cos she’s not like that.
She was a very funny lady. Very funny. I loved her. For very selfish reasons really, because Sharon was one of the very few people who I could joke about really awful stuff. You know, really shitty awful stuff. Like medicine you know. A spoonful of sugar and all that.
Sharon’s gone. I still haven’t cried.
Her daughter looks sooooo much like her. Her son sounds sooooo much like her. Being near them was bittersweet. They don’t know me, but I know them. I only really met them in the last couple of weeks of Sharon’s life. But I think I knew them because of Sharon. She spoke about them ALL of the time. She was a very happy and proud Mum and Nan, and they nursed her, at home, right until the end.
The end came on the morning of Friday 25th August. I had decided to go and visit in the morning, even though I really should have pushed myself to go the day before. I got a call from our mutual friend Sophie who gave me the news. But I knew already. The night before I knew.
The funeral was attended by many school alumna. We were at least 20. I was very surprised to have seen so many of the old faces.
“We weathered well”, I thought to myself.
She had a horse drawn hearse and all the extras. Befitting of a queen, like Sharon. Sharon was indeed a queen. She held herself well, was straight talking, but never mean and never cruel even though there was more than enough in her life story for her to be a mean and cruel lady. You know, angry black woman and all that.
The cortege took about an hour to get the the crematorium. Most of us had already arrive by at least 40 mins before. Some took a little rum and coke as libation or was it celebration. It was cold, with a splattering of rain.
When she finally arrived at the chapel, we all huddled in, silently. I read a poem written by her aunt who had passed away some years before of the same disease. Apparently I read it well. Apparently, the words I shared during the church service earlier, about grief, about the selfishness of that emotion, were well received. It seemed that what I understood about losing a dear one made sense, helped somehow. But little did they know what was fuelling my words.
The curtains closed and the people shuffled out. I stayed for sometime, in reflection.
I was angry.
How can someone so talented, so lovely, so beautiful so…whatever, be denied life. Sharon’s mother died of breast cancer, as did her grandmother. So why, why the FUCK WHY was she denied a mastectomy at the age of 35 when she explicitly asked for one. What was the reason for saying to her “We shall ‘monitor’ your progress”. We don’t need to fucking monitor ANY progress, because we KISSMEASS KNOW where it’s going to FUCKING progress to.
I’m angry. Very angry.
Don’t nobody tell me about postcode lottery. What B.S.
I have 3 friends, female, the exact same age as Sharon who have been diagnosed with cancer. All of them are not black, not with basic secondary school education and not with a lower social economic status. They are cancer survivors. I’m VERY happy that they are. These women enrich my life. So did Sharon.
Although Sharon and I only spoke maybe twice a year. We texted, facebooked fairly often just to check in. That’s how I got to know her kids. Beautiful. She was one of the few who was there for me Angela the person, not Angela the lindy hopper, etc. etc.. No judgement, just selfless time given.
Colour (and I ain’t gonna use the term ‘race’, cos that will give credence to a bogus tradition we have imbibed that there are different human races – cos we know, and if u don’t know u ought to know, that’s shit.) and class bias took Sharon away from ME. And don’t NO.BODY tell me no different.
Justice will be done. Your story will be told.
#normamillersblackwoman #blackgirlmagic #funnyblackwomanontheedge
#stsharonofstokenewington #patronsaintoftheghettoizedblackwoman #neverputofffortomorrowwhatyoucandotoday
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