It took a couple of months, but I patched things up with Walter's mother, after a fashion. She still called me her white son, but I refused to call her "Momma" any more. Eventually, she started calling me Phil.
I came to realize that people mourn the death of a loved one in their own way. I was not in my own church, and though I used to attend a Pentecostal church, I was unaware of the customs of this particular one. If they wanted to celebrate Walter's life in this way, I should have celebrated with them. Was I being the culturally insensitive one? Was I being the White Savior? I'm ashamed. I shouldn't have left the funeral. I love Walter's family dearly. That's God's way, and that's what Walter would have wanted.
YOU ARE READING
Walking in Memphis
Non-FictionThis is a true story of hurt and redemption following my partner's funeral. The names of everyone have been changed, except for my name and Walter's. I do this out of deep love and respect. This is our story.
