My friend Laura asked to write a piece about black clothing to read at the conference I attended last week, Mom 2.0. Originally the plan was for me to read it on Friday Night at a “coffee-house” party, but since I had to leave early I read it before the general session of four hundred people. Laura informed me of this about two hours before I was supposed to read. Thank you Laura for the opportunity – and the minor heart attack.
I used to love wearing black clothing. It always went with whatever hair color I was sporting. It made me look thinner on my bloated days, and I could dress it up or down depending on the occasion. I was sexy, I was fun, I was emo, black was whatever I wanted to be. I wore black almost every day.
And then my daughter died.
Black is the color associated with grief and mourning. When my grandmother lost her son to Leukemia in the 1950s, she and my great-grandmother wore black for an entire year. I remember her telling me that she would get stared at when she went out in public. The looks she got at the grocery store, or at church, or even walking her children to school, were looks of sadness, curiosity, and pity. As a child, I remember being horrified. As an adult suddenly in the same position, I was terrified.
I did NOT want to be the young grieving mom. I didn’t want to enshroud myself in black material, broadcasting my sadness and loss. It seemed so terribly invasive, and even though the custom of mourning clothes has fallen away, I knew that wearing black was something I wanted to avoid at all costs.
I asked everyone to wear purple to my daughter’s funeral. I packed away my black clothing. I desperately wanted to appear normal, wrapping myself in bright colors and textures. On the inside, I was black and broken, but on the outside I did everything I could to look like a normal 29-year-old woman. I couldn’t handle the thought of a stranger looking at me with pity.
I think we all know that no stranger was ever going to look at me and know I was “in mourning.” (And really, that term is so inaccurate, because mourning isn’t a period of life that begins and ends – it clings to you, wrapping around your soul, for the rest of your life.) But at that point, I wasn’t rational, and banishing black gave me a small sense of control during the most uncontrollable time in my life.
My grandmother predeceased my daughter by six years, but I had never missed her as much as I did in the immediate aftermath of Madeline’s death. My Aunt Kathy, my mother’s oldest sibling, was the only one of my Grandmother’s children old enough to remember their “mourning period.” I would have long talks with her about what she remembered from that time. I was desperate to know how my grandmother had survived losing a child, and my aunt would answer every question I had to the best of her ability.
At one point, I brought up the mourning clothes, and how I’d banished black from my wardrobe. She remembered the time, but not with the same painful clarity my grandmother had once described. I commented that I couldn’t remember EVER seeing my grandma wear black. My aunt agreed, took a long pause, and then said:
“I hope you wear black again, Heather. You really wear the shit out of black.”
A few months later, when my aunt passed away suddenly, I wore a black dress to her memorial service. I wore the shit out of it.
I am now three years past the intense, immediate shock of my daughter’s death. Wearing black is no longer something I avoid – in fact, I’ve started adding black pieces to my wardrobe again. I am back to defining what I want my black clothes to mean to ME, and not what I think black clothes may mean to those around me. I can be confident, or sassy, or even sad when I wear black. I define the clothes, the clothes do not define me.
Tonight at 9pm ET/6pm PT I will be hosting a Twitter party for the Thank You, Mom program. Be sure to follow me @MamaSpohr so you can participate!
Sue says:
Even living in Florida, Heather, we love wearing black anytime of the year! I have so much black in my wardrobe. It can look so chic by adding a gorgeous splash of color with a beautiful handbag, and it really makes jewelry stand out and be noticed!! I’m sure that you look stunning in black, and it sounds like your Aunt Kathy knew best!!! Don’t forget to take some photos!!!
Molly says:
You are amazing–brave and talented.
Julie says:
Your Aunt Kathy sounds like she was an amazing woman. I love her comment about you and black, and love that you did so for her funeral.
You and Mike are great parents to two amazing, beautiful girls.
Editdebs says:
You wear the shit out of life. You are a beautiful, wonderful woman.
suzy says:
great comment and your aunt really summed it up – she sounds like she was really terrific.
Pattie says:
I second what Editdebs and Julie said.
Lisa says:
Every time you talk about your Aunt Kathy I love her even more. I think she said the perfect thing to you.
PattyB says:
Wow, you wrote the shit out of that speech. I especially love the last couple sentences. Very well put, Heather.
Sue says:
Heather,,,,,,
Nobody,,and I do mean NOBODY, writes a blog like you & Mike!!!!!!!!! You guys are the best!!!!!!!
Katie says:
How there are only 8 comments on this, I do not understand. This is probably my favorite thing you’ve written. Raw, honest and just perfect.
Mama Fuss says:
Beautifully written, heather, as always. I’m glad you’re wearing black again. Thank you so much for sharing your heart, as you do daily here.
TamaraL says:
I love this post too…and I just don’t even know what to say in my comment…but I feel like I had to say something. I love to read ‘healing’ posts from you, Heather. And I’m positive you look amazing in black. Hugs!
Jackie says:
What I wouldn’t give to have been in the audience listening to read this.
I hope you get to wear the shit out of your black clothes as much as you want.
Sleeping Mom @ Sleeping Should Be Easy says:
When my husband’s maternal grandmother died, his mom also wore black that whole year. I also lost two young cousins recently and the attendants wore either purple and orange (one of the boys’ favorite color combos) or a Chargers outfit (the other boy’s favorite team). I think either way is fine. Wearing black I don’t think connotes pity, more like a way to honor the departed. And wearing our loved ones’ favorite colors also honors them as well.
Jana says:
Right on!!!!
Amy Stone says:
One of my favorite posts right here!! I love the last line…..so important to remember in ANY situation really!
Brooke says:
I think this is so fascinating, because I can relate so much to what you’re saying, although my own response was sort of opposite. When my daughter was stillborn, I wanted to wear black for a year. I wanted a Victorian armband to let the world know that I was in mourning, that I was NOT okay, that I needed to be treated differently. I felt so raw and fragile and I needed people to be gentle with me, to be able to look at me and see how broken I was. Normally I would totally resist the idea of being pitied by strangers, but that was my initial reaction.
In the early days of my grief, so many people sympathized with my pain and shared their own stories of loss with me. I realized that the bereaved are all around us and I remember thinking that if we could all just look the way we really feel, maybe we could be more patient with one another. I didn’t want to wear color for so long because it felt like a betrayal to dress in a happy color when I was so broken on the inside. Eventually I realized, like you, that clothes don’t define who I am or how I feel. And just like you reclaimed black, I also found a day–months after her death–when I put on a coral sweater as a symbol of hope that life could be sweet again, even if this sorrow was always in my heart.
Lanie says:
What a beautiful post – I admire your reaction to not wear black. Like Brooke, I took the opposite approach. I always wore black but since my sons have died I do not think I have gone a day without some black clothing. My Aunt actually took me shopping after our second son died because she wanted to see me in a color.
I do not want pity from strangers or anyone actually. For months after each of their deaths I did not even think about what I was putting on (I am pretty sure I did not brush my hair or shower very often either).
It has now been 6 years since our 1st son died and 2 years since our 2nd son died – I wear colors at times but there is still always something black on my body. I have never thought about my clothes defining me or how I feel. Thank you for this post. Take care.