Ten years ago, I was having lunch in the glass-doored law library that doubled as client meeting space and break room, when the attorney who owned that floor of offices passed by. He must have only just noticed the black ribbon I had tired around my upper left arm, as I had been wearing it every day for months; today it was offset against my blue shirt.
Grinning, he joked, “Who died?”
I blinked and answered truthfully, “My mom.”
Never have I seen a man’s face shift from shock to mortification so quickly.
Visible signals of mourning used to be commonplace, practiced by cultures the world over. The Victorians are infamous for their strict customs on allowed colors and ornamentation, dictated by one’s relation to the deceased and the time passed since death. But now, we are expected to mourn in private, to keep our grief to ourselves, to not bring down the mood or make people uncomfortable by prompting them to encounter both a reminder of their mortality and our collective lack of grief literacy.
What do we lose when we make grief invisible? Moving through the world we can feel isolated, experiencing life through a lens of loss that no one else can recognize. We become unwilling participants in the illusion of normalcy, when in fact our previous normal has been shattered leaving us to pick up the shards with bleeding fingers. The brunt of the world slides to overwhelm and the weight of what we carry staggers our step.
In the week following my mom’s death, those first few days of remembering, again and again, this new reality, I was seized with the desire to mark the process somehow, a visible, tangible reminder. Strangers on the street wouldn’t know at a glance, but friends would learn. Trying the black ribbon in place, I prayed, be gentle with me. This world is so new, please don’t rush me. Mourning in progress.
By making grief visible, we reclaim and acknowledge the parts of our humanity that empire would deny. We mourn, we are inconvenient and messy, we are not efficient. We are undergoing a transformation, visiting the underworld as we pass into a world that longer contains what it once did.
Visible grief also serves as reminder to ourselves. When I found my eyes welling with tears ‘over nothing’, when simple tasks felt mountainous, when motivation was a fleet-footed creature I had no hope of catching, I would reach up to adjust the ribbon. Right, this is understandable; I’m in the throes of grief. Things feel hard right now because they legitimately are.
Grief made visible also serves as a kind of record-keeping. Time dissolved into something simultaneously nebulous and horrifyingly concrete. It’s been x days since— it’s been x weeks since— it’s been x months since— all the while feeling like just yesterday and forever ago. Wearing the ribbon became a way to track how I was doing with all of it. Occasionally on particularly scattered days, I would forget to put it on before I left the house—the strength of my reaction let me know how I was really doing with everything underneath the veneer of seeming ‘fine’. Over time, crying panic and keen awareness of the lack gave way to deep discomfort gave way to a passing ‘whoops’. Until the time came, well over a year and a half later, when I decided it was time to set the ribbon on my ancestor shrine, where it remains to this day, looped around the small black-and-gold urn of her ashes.
We deserve to have our grief seen and recognized.
In my experience, few people commented on my ribbon, and those that did—save for the frankly hilarious instance of the attorney-landlord—took the explanation with grace and a simple ‘I’m sorry for your loss’. Others were intrigued, as if my public grief gave them permission to grieve openly as well, sometimes swapping stories and witnessing each other, the sense of isolation lifting in these moments.
That is the true gift of making our grief seen. It disrupts the empire’s insistence that we all just power through to keep the wheels of oppression grinding. It discomforts the comfortable, and comforts the mourning. And it challenges the lie that we are alone, instead lighting a little flame, a beacon to guide those who feel lost int he dark to a place where they can finally be seen.
