Host: Zora Shaw

Zora: [00:00:02] Welcome to All Together Now, Fridays with The Moth. I'm your host this week,. As a producer of StorySLAMs and Mainstage shows, you may have seen me around. I'm the crazy tall one. 

I'm really happy to be joining you in all your homes for this. I'm also a little bit out of my comfort zone, because I'm more of a behind-the-scenes kind of girl. But I am honored that I get to spend some time with you, just talking about a story that I loved. This week, we're listening to a story about finding your strength to stay true to yourself and all the love that demands. 

Isaiah Owens told this at a Mainstage show in New York City, where the theme of the night was Stories of Insight. Here's Isaiah, live at The Moth.

[cheers and applause] 

Isaiah: [00:00:47] Good evening. I am a funeral director. I know grief and I know how to comfort people. When I was growing up in my hometown in Branchville, South Carolina, we were fed fried chicken, collard greens, cornbread and funerals. At a funeral, there was a hearse. The hearse brought your body to the church and took you to the cemetery. That same hearse would take you to the hospital if you were sick. So, the funeral homes acted as a funeral home and an ambulance service. 

When you were going to the funeral, they tolled the bells as the family approached the church. Once inside the church, they fed us that life, no matter how long you live, is just like a vapor. It appears for a moment and then it disappears. And then, they fed us that we are like grass which groweth up in the morning and flourishes and groweth up. And then, in the evening, we are cut down, and withered and we fly away. 

At the age of five years old, I started burying things. After my grandmother, Mama Alice, died, I went and I buried a matchstick. I realize now what was happening is, I went to Mama's funeral, and I saw them put her in the ground, and they covered her up, and they made a nice mound of dirt and they put beautiful flowers on her. So, then playing in the yard after the funeral, I went and I dug me a little hole and I put a matchstick in it, covered it up and I put some flowers on it. And that was my first funeral.

As I grew up, I continued to be attracted to burying things. I buried everything that died on the farm. I grew up on a cotton farm, so all of the animals, the chickens or whatever died, I gave them a funeral, [audience laughter] which caused me to be rejected by my family. [audience laughter] Isolated, and I was an outcast. They thought that I was a little funeral nerd. [audience laughter] 

However, I had one friend. That was Aungenia. Aungenia was born in 1882. She was 68 years old when I was born. So, I played funerals, and Aungenia would play funerals with me. Aungenia was the first African queen that I know. When we were growing up, Aungenia could sit a big pan on top of her head and walk from my mother’s house to her house with her hands by her side. The pan would be full of butter beans or whatever it was, she never had to hold it with her hand. 

Aungenia had a vocabulary, like Esther on Sanford and Son. She made up her words as she went. [audience laughter] She would call you a fish-eyed fool, or she would call you an old hag. But then, after she hurt your feelings, she would always call you in the room and give you some candy, or some chewing gum or even a nickel. So, Aungenia and I had this little love affair going on. Aungenia attended at least 10 of my little funerals. [audience laughter] She thought that I was absolutely normal. [audience laughter] 

I remember one funeral, we had a toy wagon that had torn up. I wanted to dig a grave to do a funeral for it. So, I got Aungenia and went down in the woods in the field and I performed the funeral for the red wagon top. Aungenia was the family. She just thought that I was it. I loved her very much. When I was 14, Aungenia passed away. And I was devastated. Now, it’s time to go to Aungenia’s funeral. That day was a day that I felt that I had no reason to live. 

So, as we left Aungenia’s house, they started ringing the bell. The bell was so bitter and so hard to me. I just looked out of the window of the car and I cried. The more the bell rang, the more I cried. I just kept saying to myself, no more Aungenia. No more Aungenia. However, after the funeral, I picked myself up.

Five years later, I graduated from American Academy McAllister Institute of Funeral Service, and I got a diploma in funeral service. It was one of the best days of my life, because now, I was on my journey to become the funeral director that I wanted to become. I was just 18 years old when I graduated. However, it being such a wonderful day for me, it was a very sad day, because none of my family members came to my graduation. After that, I got my license and I buried my first customer, Mr. Rufus Felton, in 1971, from the church that I attended. After that, my business mushroomed. 

Now, with Aungenia gone, my sister, Maxine, had taken that Aungenia place. So, Maxine and I were like twins. She loved me and I loved her. My family never referred people to me for a funeral. But when Maxine got her job and started teaching school, whenever someone passed away, she would always refer them to me. Maxine wound up living with me for some years until I got her an apartment. 

However, Maxine came down with systemic lupus. My mother was here to help take care of Maxine when she was in the hospital. The last time she was here, she called me aside and said, “Listen, I know that Maxine is not going to make it and I want you to do Maxine’s funeral.” I was honored that my mother would ask me to do Maxine’s funeral, because I knew that my family never used my services. 

Well, Maxine died, and we took her home to Branchville for her funeral and her burial. And that Saturday night, after her viewing and her wake at my funeral home, my brother, Anthony, and Lynn and myself, I was locking up the funeral home and Anthony said to me, “We can’t leave Maxine here tonight by herself.” And my brother, Lynn, and I agreed. So, we went and got in the funeral home, on the floor by Maxine’s open casket and we stayed the night with her. 

The next day, Maxine’s 35th birthday, was her funeral. And on my way to the church, all of a sudden, I heard [imitates bell sound] bang. That was the church bells. The bell that they sounded when Aungenia died was so harsh and terrible. But this time, I listened to the bell. The bell went from being such a harsh sound to being a very sweet hum at the end of the sound.

When I realized that this is a family reunion, I was hugging my mother, my father, my brother, Anthony, Ms. Jane, Aungenia’s daughter-in-law, cousin Lizzie, Ms. Harborale, my high school principal, Mr. Joseph Jackson, Sister Ophelia, used to be the wife of the pastor that baptized me and Maxine. 

My battery was charged up, and there was love. At the end of the day, I realized that I had been comforting all of these people for all of these years. And now, not only my family but the community has come to comfort me. At the end of the day, I realized then that there was love and that the spirits of those people who have gone on before, along with the spirits of the people that are alive makes me strong and it restores my soul and it restores us.

[cheers and applause] 

Zora: [00:10:38] That was Isaiah Owens. Isaiah Owens is the Funeral Director of Owens Funeral Home in Harlem. Last year in 2019, he celebrated his 50th year in business. He was also the subject of the critically acclaimed film by Christine Turner, Homegoings. You can find it in the Extras for this episode on our website, themoth.org/extras. 

There’s so much that I love about Isaiah’s story. First of all, let’s talk about how Isaiah’s been prepping to be a funeral director his whole life. He figured out what it was and he was like, “That’s going to be me.” And then, he stuck to it and I respect that. But on a more serious note, what’s so wonderful about this story is how it’s steeped with his love. His love for Aungenia, who never made him feel like anything other than normal, his love for his sister, who came back into his life, the love for his community, and yes, even the love for his brother, who attempted to beat the funeral out of him. He speaks of all of them with playful adoration. 

My community feels so far away right now, but Isaiah’s story reminds me how important it is to wrap yourself in the love and comfort of your family, chosen or otherwise. If Isaiah’s story inspired you, here are a few questions to get you thinking about stories of your own. Who in your life has given you strength? When was the last time you had an unexpected reunion? Who was it with and what did it feel like? You can also find these prompts in the Extras for this episode on our website, themoth.org/extras. 

That’s all for this week. Remember, you can pitch us your own story at our Pitchline, right on our website. And if you’re looking for more Moth, you can check us out on Instagram, @mothstories, and @themoth on Facebook and Twitter. Until next time, from all of us here at The Moth, have a story-worthy week.

Julia: [00:12:28] Zora Shaw is an assistant producer for The Moth StorySLAM and Mainstages. She’s previously worked as a bookseller in various independent bookstores around New York City. It’s where she first got the chance to witness the universal power of stories. A native New Yorker through and through, her favorite stories still come from the streets of her home, even from those who are too scared to take the stage.

Zora: [00:12:52] Podcast production by Julia Purcell. The Moth Podcast is presented by PRX, the Public Radio Exchange, helping make public radio more public at prx.org.