After all the controversy over the arrests in Treme during the traditional secondline farewell after the death of Kerwin James, noted tuba player for the New Birth Brass Band, we knew that we had to show solidarity and respect by attending his funeral on Saturday, October 6. That morning, I put on my kente cloth minister’s stole over a black summer dress, and we headed out.
We arrived before the start time of 10 am, but the little church was already packed with mourners. I signed the guestbook in the vestibule and then we waited in the street with a crowd of other folks, black and white, young and old. One guy had parked a giant wood-burning barbeque rig (looked like it was made from an old boiler) on the corner and was starting to grill burgers, hot dogs, and sausages – the smell wafted through the neighborhood, making mouths water. Several people were selling bottles of water and soft drinks from ice chests in wheelbarrows or on the beds of pick-up trucks. A few people had cameras, but most seemed like they were there to participate, not to observe and take pictures.
More people kept arriving, and it was starting to get pretty hot. We had left the house without getting coffee and the lack of caffeine was starting to tell. We left our spot in front of the church and walked to a little neighborhood bar on the corner, thinking we’d get coffee there. They opened the door for us (it’s one of those places where they keep the door locked and they have to buzz you in or let you in) and who should we see right off but Kermit Ruffins, for once without a kerchief on his head, dressed in a sharp black suit, his trumpet resting on the bar. His wife sat next to him, and there were 2 young white women next to them. Otherwise, except for the bar’s owner and employees, the place was empty.
I was kindly directed to the scrupulously clean Men’s Room, as the Women’s Room was out of service. Big Man ordered our coffees, although everyone else in the place was drinking beer. They said they would make a pot just for us. We waited, and were soon served 2 steaming plastic cups of strong New Orleans coffee with little containers of half & half. “How much?” asked Big Man, reaching in his pocket. “It’s on the house,” smiled the owner. We thanked him profusely, and tipped the barmaid as we left.
About 11:30 am, the service was over, and mourners began to spill out from the church. The street was packed with musicians – there were 6 or 8 tuba players, about 8 or so trumpet players, including Kermit, several ‘bones, and multiple drummers. A sigh went up from the gathered crowd as the casket was carried out, the pall bearers seemingly struggling with the weight of it. The slow strains of “Closer Walk” were taken up by all the musicians (Big Man was wishing he had brought his horn), and the casket was brought down the short flight of steps to the street. The crowd was massed around the pall bearers shoulder-to-shoulder, and from where we were standing, you couldn’t see the coffin any more. Suddenly, in time with the music, the bearers swung the casket high, and then down and around, as if dancing with it. They did this several times. It was an amazing moment – powerful, emotional, spiritual. I wiped away tears with my handkerchief, and I wasn’t the only one.
The coffin was eventually gently placed in the hearse. A thrown-together band with members I recognized from Rebirth, New Birth, and several other brass bands, plus Kermit, and other musicians, got in front, and a group of secondliners fell into place behind them. Then came the hearse, then another band, then the family and official mourners. Big Man and I took our place in the group immediately in front of the hearse behind the first band, and soon, a passionate version of “I’ll Fly Away” soared up. (Literally – most of the horn players were directing the bells of their horns straight up to heaven, a la Buddy Bolden.) At the chorus, many in the crowd lifted their voices: "I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away. When I die, Hallelujah, by and by, I'll fly away."
As the funeral parade made its way slowly toward Esplanade, people in the neighborhood came out onto their porches and stoops, many of them shimmying in the traditional secondline step. One man climbed on top of a parked van, and danced his heart out up there. As we crossed over Esplanade Avenue, a respectful police motorcycle escort held up traffic so we could cross – so different from the way the police acted earlier in the week, when 2 musicians in the memorial secondline were arrested for “disturbing the peace” and “parading without a permit.”
Folks came out of Lil Dizzy’s Café to watch as the parade passed by. Some held baseball caps over their hearts; some waved handkerchiefs. A group of employees came out the back door from the kitchen and danced hard on the sidewalk.
It was a good send-off for Kerwin, a fitting tribute. I thought to myself, "This is how we New Orleanians lay someone to rest -- this is how we honor their life and celebrate who they were," and despite the obvious storm damage in Treme, as elsewhere in the city, I was proud of the strength and beauty of my beloved hometown, and I felt glad, once again, to be finally home.
No comments:
Post a Comment