God bless the dead
Written for Like The Prose 2021
When I walk through church cemeteries, I will occasionally sing to the gravestones, usually the song God Rest You Merry, Gentleman. While this may seem like an odd activity, I now know that at least part of its rationale comes from privilege. I had not realised this before listening to some Tupac Shakur today for the first time, on the occasion of what would have been his 50th birthday, and being shocked by our different approaches to the concept of death.
It’s unquantifiable the extent to which the tendrils of privilege permeate through everything. Even death, for me, is rooted in it. I associate death with age and sickness; with hospital beds, palliative care and gravestones; with the image of the grim reaper; and at the fringes of my association, with duty, depression and misfortune. I have been lucky in my life that these are the images of life’s terminus in my mind’s eye. Death is peaceful, sad, indiscriminate, calm. Death comes for all of us, and all we can do is live our lives in a way that can maximise goodness and happiness until it happens. I imagine that that’s death for most people I know — an unknowable, inescapable experience that we hope to put off for as long as we can.
This is not death for everyone though. Death is not peaceful for those in countries ravaged by war and terror; it is not sad for those who are inured to it or to those who seek to cause it; it is not indiscriminate to those who are subjected to its presence through policy on healthcare, economics, social injustice or racism; and for few of these people is death ever calm.
If I were to write a song about death, I would write on the concept of resting in peace. Perhaps that is why I have co-opted a Christmas Carol intended for the offering of tidings of comfort and joy, a celebration of the soul being saved, which, to many in this country, is a miracle realised upon death. Feeling that this would be a comfort for the souls of these graves, is one which comes from privilege.
When Tupac Shakur writes about death, his expressed viewpoints and experiences are very different to mine. His lyrics speak to violence, pride, anger and pain. He confronts society, his peers and even God. In God Bless the Dead, a song in response to the assassination of Biggie Smalls, Tupac tells Biggie to explain to God that life was hard. 2Pac confronts God:
“You had to take a good one, a ghetto hood son.”
The song Life Goes On explores both the concept of being inured to death through the frequency of burying friends:
“It’s time to bury another brother, nobody cry”
and how to move on with life honouring those who have passed:
“Eyes blurry saying goodbye at the cemetery Though memories fade I got your name tatted on my arm So we both ball till my dying days”.
In his music, Tupac cites the difficulty and violence of life on the streets and of the injustice of the police and legal systems. He even refers to the deaths of children in Shed So Many Tears and of the inevitability of the life he has created:
“And Lord knows I tried, been a witness to homicide Seen drive-by’s takin’ lives, little kids die Wonder why as I walk by Broken-hearted as I glance at the chalk line, gettin’ high This ain’t the life for me, I wanna change But ain’t no future bright for me, I’m stuck in the game I’m trapped inside a maze”.
When I put these concepts together, I cannot help but feel frustrated at the system which has created an uneven balance in society; one in which death is neither peaceful nor indiscriminate. I’m sure there are other areas I could explore further to demonstrate these ideas: statistics on incarceration rates, police killings, and the unfair distribution of life’s opportunities. But for now I will continue listening to music, try to keep checking my privilege, and mourn. #BlackLivesMatter
