I’ve read many obituaries. It’s a disappearing art form to write the summation of a person’s life. Something’s bound to be missing or under emphasized, but it’s a human task — and so, it’s fraught with imperfections.
When I was in journalism school, we were at the end of the era where the newspaper wrote an obituary for the family. It was great training for journalists on how to get to the facts and how to respectfully interview people who are in distress. It’s a humanizing exercise and I found it very valuable.
There’s a good argument for having an objective voice write your story when your life is done, but there’s also a strong argument that how your family constructs that story is part of telling the story. I know that the disappearance of staffing at newspapers is the primary reason for this service going away, but there have also been epic write-ups that have included great anecdotes, examples of stunning humor, breathtaking generosity, love and compassion. I’m glad for the transition to this new standard.
A frequent reference in obits of an elderly tough-as-nails person is this one: “She didn’t care what anyone thought of her.”
I graduated from Carolina in 1994, 18 years after I finished high school. My parents were in the middle of getting a divorced when I graduated high school, so the day isn’t one filled with glory and hope in my memory. I had no idea what I was going to do next. That uncertainty was stressful.
When I graduated from college, I was married and had two young children – one still in diapers. I finished my degree in three years. Most of my family came to Chapel Hill for that event – the University’s Bicentennial. It was an epic occasion.
I learned on that day that my parents were bursting with pride about my accomplishment. My entire family was proud (and my husband and kids earned their percentage of credit – this was a team effort) but had never before felt so bathed in admiration. My father had been to Chapel Hill many times before, yet by his own description he had never fully appreciated the beauty and impressive qualities of the UNC campus.
I came away from all of this with an unexpected insight. In my mid-thirties, making my parents proud of me meant a great deal to me. I cared very much what they thought, and I continued to do so until each of them died – almost exactly 10 years apart.
They’re not thinking about me any longer, but I am still very much thinking about them – all the time. When I behave this way or that as a parent and a grandparent, my parents and my grandparents (and my in-laws) are very present in my heart and mind.
Honestly, I don’t get the admiration offered to someone who “didn’t care what anyone thought of her.” I understand the self-confidence that it suggests. I’m all in favor of believing in yourself. I don’t need the community’s “permission” to have an opinion that’s controversial, but I do care what other people think about me. I think it helps keep us civil to hold ourselves accountable to the approval (or at least tolerance) of others.
So on this holiday weekend, I’ll offer this: I’m thankful to live in a community that seeks to continuously improve our quality of life, our public safety (wear your mask) and our common humanity. I’m proud of all of us for striving to know better and do better.
Try not to eat too much pie. Help with the dishes. Thank the cook. Happy Thanksgiving!
Jean Bolduc is a freelance writer and the host of the Weekend Watercooler on 97.9 The Hill. She is the author of “African Americans of Durham & Orange Counties: An Oral History” (History Press, 2016) and has served on Orange County’s Human Relations Commission, The Alliance of AIDS Services-Carolina, the Orange County Housing Authority Board of Commissioners, and the Orange County Schools’ Equity Task Force. She was a featured columnist and reporter for the Chapel Hill Herald and the News & Observer.
Readers can reach Jean via email – jean@penandinc.com and via Twitter @JeanBolduc
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