This past Saturday afternoon I was out running in my neighborhood when I passed a New Orleans-style parade and wake. A jazz funeral, that is, something I can’t say I’ve ever seen in Brooklyn before. It quickly became clear to me that while I didn’t personally know the woman who died, the day before I’d read about her death (another cyclist and seemingly lovely person killed by an SUV, but I won’t get into that here).
I might have thought that cultural appropriation of this sort by my demographic would be too self-conscious to have much poignancy, but it wasn’t. It was lovely, actually, at once lively and joyous and sad and completely genuine.

The funerals I’ve been to recently have all been conducted by ministers or funeral directors with recourse only to tepid and vague religious sentiments. Given our modern cultural ineptitude at acknowledging death (commensurate with our general denial of it), I was encouraged to see a particularly tragic death commemorated meaningfully.
Here’s some footage of funerals in New Orleans for more of a taste.

(PS: my friend just promised me an old bike, so I’ll be back on wheels soon for the first time in years. If there’s an SUV out there waiting to kill me, let the record reflect that I’m counting on Ethan to make sure my Sukh?vat? ceremony 1) happens and 2) is followed by celebration of some kind.)