Uncle Sammy’s Eulogy

In honor of his first heavenly birthday, I share my little brother’s eulogy with you. 

The Call from Her

On a lunch break, I go to the family level to watch the shenanigans of Love & Hip Hop Miami.

I’m about 20-minutes into the show and Haitian sisters Flo and Gaelle have me in stiches. But, in the middle of laughing and attempting to wrap my mind around the absurdity: I get the call from her. 

The “her”, is in fact, is my sister. My sister and I, in adulthood, we grow into a very complicated siblinghood. 

So, initially, seeing her name displayed in bold white letters on my iPhone, I roll my eyes, completely intending not to answer. But as immediately as I thought to send her to voicemail, I freeze. 

My sister NEVER calls me.  Like ever.  The realization takes a second to settle in.  Understanding this may be serious, I answer her call.

“Hey Sabine.  How are you? Where are you?” 

Still guarded and my voice flat, I give my sister the code-switching response reserved for my colleagues: 

“I’m fine….hoooow are you? The extra octave in my voice, conveying a disingenuous tone: “Girl, whatever it is…just spit it out.”  

In hindsight, I should’ve known this was a notification of death.  I say this because, my sister asked me where I was, which is a silly question because I work from home.  If home is my office, then ergo sis, most likely, I’m at home. 

She replies: “Sabine.  It’s not good.  Samuel’s dead.  They found his body two days ago.”

Hearing ringing in my ears, I drop to my knees yelling “NO!”  That’s the only word I can find to capture all stages of disbelief and grief. 

NO! NO! NO! It’s a loss on repeat. Trauma void of words.  This isn’t reality.  And if it is reality – it certainly can’t be mine. 

My reaction reminds me of the singer Aaliyah’s brother when he received the call that she’d passed away in a plane crash. He kept yelling no.  His grief wouldn’t allow him to accept a life without his sister. 

Same.  He’s my little brother.  How do I continue existing in a world without him? It isn’t natural.  It counters the grace that God is supposed to cover us with.  My mom was a praying woman. How could God abandon me in this way? 

Uncle Sammy is gone now, and all I have left is grief and regret.  

“I GOT THE LAST HIT!”

I “Got the Last Hit” was an infuriating game we played as children. 

The reason why I say infuriating, is because, no matter what, my brother somehow always managed to win. Couldn’t stand that.

The scene was Crown Heights, Brooklyn. 

My eldest cousin’s house, full of children; my siblings and my younger cousins, would all spend the day, being kids, hitting each other and running off and saying with our full, baby chests: “I got the last hit”! 

After a full day of our family’s  the elevated version of tag (it takes careful strategy and planning to win), you believe you’ve gotten your last hit in for the day: “I got it.  I won”!  

You think you have bragging rights and are certain in your imminent victory. 

Then, when you’re sitting comfortably in your parent’s car getting ready to go back home, basking in your victory, out of nowhere, here comes my brother Samuel: he reaches through the window, hits you, screams in your face: “I GOT THE LAST HIT”, smirks, and then, he runs off. 

My unfortunate cousin, who lost, would be seething.  They couldn’t hit my brother back, because by this time, their parent had already hit the gas pedal, making their way back home to the comforts of the New York City suburb. 

My brother played this silly game to perfection.  As such, my loss brings me back to childhood.  

You see – there were hot, Brooklyn summers running up and down the block. 

Six-hour church Sundays, sitting in the kids’ section, watching two or three deacons fighting for their lives, trying to keep my 5-year-old brother Sammy from running up and down the church aisles. 

When you’re that young – the days ahead of you appear so vast. Endless. Forty plus years later, death visits your front doorstep and serves the reminder that the years ahead of you aren’t as long as you’d think. 

Death comes fast.  Live every day with gratitude and purpose. 

GROWING UP WITH UNCLE SAMMY 

Uncle Sammy, this is who is he is to my children and my nephews.

But to me, my little brother, Somwell, was an agent of chaos. Let me and my teenager dramatics tell it; Sammy had a knack for turning the calmest day into complete pandemonium by sunset. 

To top it off, growing up. My sister was in the most unfortunate of situations dealing with Sabine and Samuel. 

My sister, as the eldest and the sibling with the highest emotional intelligence, she had to play referee to a crazy little brother and sister who, unlike her, didn’t have the greatest control over her emotions.

My mom explained my brother and I’s complicated relationship years ago, when I was around 11 years old:  I was sitting in the kitchen with her, running through the latest laundry list of grievances against my brother.  She smiled her mischievous grin and said: “Ou meme ak Samuel se lette ak citron: You and your brother are like milk and lemon.”

I asked her: “Maman, what do you mean by that”?

She said, hold on. My mom got up. Went into the fridge. Poured milk in a glass.  She then sliced a lemon in two and squeezed one side into the cup of milk. The milk curdles.  The lemon had spoiled the milk.

You see, she said? You and your brother don’t mix well. But that was one way of looking at it. 

Curdled milk is also how cheese is made, and cheese is the best snack in the world. So as fiercely as my brother and I didn’t get along, together, we were an amazing force.

Throughout everything in life, the ups and downs, my baby brother Samuel was the biggest love of my life, second only to my children.  My brother was also my most formidable opponent.  Me being four years older didn’t matter; he wasn’t going to be handled in an unfair manner.  Uncle Sammy took me to task and didn’t give me any passes. Sammy was headstrong and didn’t back down – ever. These are lessons that made me tough, right into adulthood: no matter who you are, you have a voice, and it deserves to be heard. 

MEMORY OF LOVE 

Uncle Sammy and Beans: how do I paint everything on a neat canvas to display the beautiful, dark and complicated layers of our sibling hood?

The memory of love is me both loving and hating Samuel at the same time. This complexity is the invisible string theory that tied us. A double-edged sword…is that what that means? Hope so. 

For instance, when my brother turned 14-years-old, he paid me a visit on campus. 

Til this day, I wonder how he somehow managed to find himself in the middle of a campus brawl with two rival groups.  At first, I was livid.  Chewed him out.  My dear friend Ma’s face dropped when she saw how ferociously I ripped into him. 

The boy was in tears when I got him on the Greyhound Bus back to NY.  But right after, I take the walk back to my dorm.  The frigid, upstate NY cold whips in my face and gives me a sense of sobering clarity.

By the time I get back to West Hall, I collapse with laughter…Only Samuel. I went from seething to admiring his gumption in almost getting his ass beat. There was a duality in how we dealt with one another. I miss that. 

My brother was there when I gave birth to my youngest son.

Of course, with Somwell, he managed to make Timmy’s birth a cinematic production, complete with the Bad Boys scene where Will Smith chases the antagonist who snatches up his witness.

It was all so vivid.  It was  was bumper to bumper on the Belt Parkway; we were literally trapped on our way to Long Island Jewish Hospital. 

My contractions were coming in quicker and stronger and seeing no other way, he jumps out the car, in the middle of a crowded highway to run and flag down an NYPD car stalled a few cars ahead of us in traffic. The female officer, (the police person being a Black woman, mind you) she cavalierly responds there was no assistance she could provide to a woman who was about to give birth on the highway.  

I’m wondering if my brother were a white man, if her response would’ve been different? Just a question. 

Sammy runs back in the car and jumps in.  Another contraction and a gush of water in between my legs.   With no energy left, I let out a squeak: “Somwell, my water broke.”  My brother is defeated: “Oh My GAWD.” 

My cousin’s boyfriend (now husband) was doing his best to get me to the hospital. Judging by the waterfall of sweat pouring down the nape of his neck, I’m guessing that he’s never had a woman in labor in his car before. 

My brother was swearing at my cousin’s boyfriend to drive the car faster in deadlocked traffic. 

My fiery cousin Vee – one, who who was never known to hold her tongue, was swearing back at my brother: “Don’t talk to my FKING man like that! Who the FCK are you talking to, Somwell?!”

This was a perfect moment of pandemonium. 

These are the chaotic waters he was used to sailing.  This is one of my favorite memories of him as my brother was there when chaos turned into one of the best things that’s ever happened to me: the birth of my last child.

We loved each other as much as we couldn’t stand one another.  There was harmony watching Knight Rider and the Dave Chappelle show together as much as there was fighting. 

The memories of love, mired with intricacy. 

UNCLE SAMMY’S LEGACY 

There are so many things I admired about him. Uncle Sammy left a legacy for his nephews as well as, lessons for me, his Big Sis, as well as everyone who knew him.                                                                                          

He lived life on his own terms. 

Akin to Papa Legba, my brother was a mischievous little trickster.  Prankster.  He didn’t care who liked or disliked him, he navigated this journey called life as a free spirit.  Operating in a space of non-conformity; I’ve always envied this about him.   

As someone who was always deeply concerned about what others thought of my looks, intelligence, speech and economic background, the way that Uncle Sammy gave the world a middle finger produced an underbelly of resentment from me to him for the audacious freedom had the blessing of experiencing on this earth. I think that’s one of our main points disconnects – his refusal to conform irked me. My need made me weaker than him; although I’d never admit to it. 

And now, as a middle aged woman, I still feel bound by not being good enough. My brother was never locked in a prison of low self worth or doubt. That was Somwell. 

He’s the funniest person I knew.  Just ask my cousin Kee-Kee about the cheeseburger and the hole in the wall joke… priceless. Charisma, off the chain. 

I spent my adulthood trying to make my cousins see he was the villain.  They saw none of that.  The image my baby brother reflected was a light prism of laughter and charm. It was a spectrum that illuminated most who met him. 

Uncle Sammy’s intelligence spoke volumes. My brother Samuel could speak to any politician or an unfortunate person with the same level of empathy.  Another aspect I couldn’t dominate – this man knew everything about any subject.

What ultimately made me so mad, was that he just didn’t have the capacity or will to channel his intelligence. He lived on his own terms.

 

BLISSFULLY SINGLE LESSONS IN GRIEVING 

It Ain’t all Blissful, When You’re Single….

My brand is built on being single and comfortable in the space that society demonizes women for. 

A man can be single into their 70’s and still wont be viewed in a negative light.

In this society, men are granted reproductive  autonomy to the point where they can create babies and leave mothers destitute without a finger wave of judgement from the court of public opinion.  Men are also left to their own discretion as to whether or not they choose to date.  Nobody cares.  No one judges.  It’s all good. 

However, as women, God forbid we choose us and not ascribe to a path forced by our puritanical founders. 

Whether it’s a young woman who opts for freedom from a husband who quite frankly will probably cheat, beat, or abandon her at the sniff a major illness; or the woman who says: “Miss me with children, I’m trying to live my life free of that angst of motherhood” – we are characterized as selfish, bitter and destined to spend a life with malnourished cats climbing all over our fine counter tops. 

So OK – I do have ONE cat – but it isn’t mine, it’s my son’s. 

That being said and biases placed aside, it isn’t easy being Blissfully Single Bean after losing my brother. After losing anyone, really. 

After the funeral, I fly back home to Atlanta. Walking through my airport, I’m a shell. 

I had to operate in zombie mode and drape myself in coldness. Nevertheless, grief sneaks its way in and cloaks me.   One step in front of the other, but the tears burn their ways to my eyes. Not able to contain them and not caring enough to wipe them away, they flow steadily down my cheeks.  However, I continue to  put one foot in front of the other so that I could get home. One step and one day at a time with the mantra: “Just breathe girl.  Keep breathing until you’re not crying every day, anymore.”

When I finally punched my keyed code and walked into an empty house, I checked on the cat and made my way to the third floor.

I get to my room, I look around, thankful the room was neat; I then collapsed and cry. The carpet in my room surrounds and warms my skin, but ultimately, could not defrost the icicles that have taken residence around my heart.  I just buried my baby brother. Uncle Sammy is gone.  

At that moment, arriving back in Atlanta to a deafening silence, I needed someone.  Arms to wrap around me.  My mortal self and soul was yearning for a physical safe haven where I could shed the false metal of hardness that I have put on every single day.

Walking into my house, I really wanted a man there to say: “Baby cry.  I got you. Just Cry. All you have to do is cry.” 

 

The Uselessness of Anger  

The major lesson of  my brother’s death teaches me of the  uselessness of anger. I used to think that anger kept me strong, when in reality, anger is a malignant cancer that permeates the soul, and, if left unhealed, leads to a slow, metaphysical death. 

Ultimately, my brother and I, we got to a point where we had to put distance between each other.

But whenever his birthday came around, I thought to pick up the phone and call him, but my anger wouldn’t let me do it. 

A few weeks before his death, something whispers in my ear, “Call Him.” However, I take a large gulp of my full glass of Pinot Noir, stare into the flames dancing in the fireplace and let anger both imprison and paralyze me. 

A couple of months later, watching the pall bearers descend his beautiful white coffin into the earth, the uselessness of anger took time away from us. I could’ve effectively maintained my boundaries, but picked up the phone for a quick check-in. 

Now, as I navigate the rest of my life without him in this world with us, I don’t think I can ever forgive myself, nor do I believe I should forgive me. It’s torment I deserve to live with. 

Single, Grieving, and Yours,