Apr 29, 2024 | Family, Grief
Who Owns Our Stories?
The Fever Pitch and the Harm of True Crime
By Nora Biette-Timmons
There doesn’t appear to be one singular moment when America went true-crime crazy. In the 1990s and early 2000s, tabloids and popular magazines published what they considered salacious details of violent crimes that captured their readers’ imagination. NBC’s Dateline premiered in 1992, and has spent the last three decades reporting out crimes week after week, and remains a major success: In 2023, 125 million people watched Dateline, and it was the number one most popular TV newsmagazine program, according to Nielsen data.
The podcast boom of the last decade can in part be attributed to Americans’ existing obsession with true crime: The This American Life spinoff Serial’s first season investigated the 1999 murder of Hae-min Lee and the subsequent prosecution of her former boyfriend Adnan Syed. Its explosive popularity—it was downloaded 100 million times within a year of its release—brought renewed attention to the case, and in 2022, Syed’s murder conviction was thrown out. However, it was later reinstated in October 2023—because Lee’s brother had been unable to attend the hearing at which it was overturned.
This oversight is indicative of a larger reality. When true crime stories garner the sort of frantic, fever-pitch level of attention of Serial, the lived experiences of those actually hurt by the crime go under the radar—if they’re not outright ignored.
As Lee’s brother told a court in 2022, “This is not a podcast for me. It’s real life that will never end — it’s been 20-plus years. It’s a nightmare.”
The commercial success of true crime means that for far too many people, the worst thing that’s ever happened to them has been turned into entertainment, regardless of whether or not they and their loved ones have received justice of any sort.
For Laura Freeman, that moment came in late June 2022, when a popular TV network aired an episode focused on the case of her mother, Virginia, who had been murdered in College Station, Texas, more than 40 years previously, when Freeman was 14 and her brother, Brad, was 12. Virginia was a realtor, and volunteered at church helping immigrants whose spouses moved to town to attend Texas A&M. Laura Freeman remembers the camping trips her mother would plan; Virginia helped build a very happy, stable family.
It had taken investigators 38 years to determine who violently killed her mother. A former sheriff’s detective who worked the case appeared as an expert on the episode, telling intimate, gruesome details about the case.
A friend of her cousin told them about the show, warning Freeman’s family against watching it. Freeman told Evermore that she only watched a preview of the episode—and saw a picture of her mom’s hand wearing a ring that she now has.
“I felt frozen when I first viewed the picture of my mother’s hand,” she said.
Maintaining the dignity of victims’ stories, even without consent, is possible. An ABC News report on the discovery that led to solving Freeman’s mother’s murder exemplifies how to report crime victims’ stories responsibly. It doesn’t include unnecessary salacious details, for example, in the same fashion that many true crime platforms do, or tease the idea that Freeman’s father may have done it, a common trope in true crime storytelling.
The ABC report also recognizes that this crime had lasting effects on her loved ones, and clearly sought to include their perspective: “While it’s too painful for her children to talk about the case, her son said earlier this year that he’s grateful investigators never lost interest in his mother’s case,” the last paragraph reads.
In an interview with TIME Magazine, Mindy Pendleton said she also felt re-traumatized when she found out that another popular network documentary team was reporting on the murder of her stepson, Robert Mast. In February 2019, they asked her and her family to participate in the show. Pendleton was vehemently opposed to the idea.
“As a parent, a fellow human being, I beg you not to do this,” she wrote in an email to the documentary team, which she shared with TIME. “PLEASE don’t do this!”
Though a producer told Pendleton he’d never faced such a “moral dilemma,” the show moved forward despite her pleas, and Mast’s murder was recounted in the first episode of the second season of I Am A Killer, which premiered in April 2020. While the episode did not include input from Mast’s family, it did paint the woman who killed him “in a relatively sympathetic light,” as TIME reporter Melissa Chan put it.
I Am A Killer has gone on to have two more seasons, and a fifth is coming later this year—proving that the true crime craze has not dissipated.
Besides its exploitative focus on peoples’ most harrowing memories, true crime consumption often comes with another downside, according to Stacey Nye, a clinical professor of psychology at UW-Milwaukee: victim blaming.
Even those who “do everything right” can become victimized, Nye said in an interview with WUWM, an NPR station in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She also highlighted another problem with true crime: its over-emphasis on white women: “There’s a huge number of women of color, Indigenous women, and trans women who are targeted, and that’s talked about much less.”
No victim deserves to have their story told without their permission—or that of their loved ones. But, like any other media representation, it’s important to be aware of the inequalities that true crime narratives may perpetuate.
It may be hard to determine a comprehensive solution to the exploitative side of true crime, given just how massive the industry is now.
But at least on an individual level, true crime content producers can make amends with victims and/or their families.
The National Center for Victims of Crime has sought to create more understanding among true crime fans, too.
“We have focused on trying to encourage ‘ethical’ true crime consumption—meaning that viewers are mindful of what they are watching and hold the producers/creators accountable for being victim-centered and including victim voices,” Renee Williams, the center’s executive director, told Evermore. “We always advocate for the inclusion of victims in telling their own stories in true crime and media coverage.”
To that end, her organization has created guidelines to help people stay thoughtful as they watch true crime shows or listen to true crime podcasts. Among them are reminders for people to ensure they’re consuming content from legitimate sources and to prioritize content that elevates victims’ perspectives.
So, the next time you scroll through your phone to pick a podcast, or see promo for the latest murder documentary splashed across your TV, take a beat. Remember that, no matter how this content may be packaged—whether it has Hollywood high production values, or uses a crime story to illustrate a salient political point—it is telling a story that belongs to someone else. Real people’s pain is behind these narratives, and it is important to remember and center that.[/vc_column_text][vc_separator border_width=”3″ css_animation=”fadeInRight” css=””][vc_column_text css=””]
We welcome readers to share their experiences with true crime — positive or negative, confusing, frustrating, or supportive. If you have a story to share, email us at hello@stagingevermore.dbdodev.com.
Mar 18, 2024 | Community, Family, Grief
PAUSE: Producing Safe, Culturally-Specific, Expert-Informed Grief and End-of-Life Resources Across America
How three Black-led grief organizations are building resources for communities of color through education and conversations.
By Nora Biette-Timmons[
In the summer of 2020, after the police killing of George Floyd sparked nationwide protests over entrenched racism and inequality, Alica Forneret paused to make a decision. Her career was already focused in grief spaces; after her mother’s sudden death in 2016, Forneret faced further difficulty when she returned to work and received little in the way of institutional support, something she set out to change through education, conversations, and community building.
But following the massive outcry over Floyd’s unjust, public death, she pivoted her work to focus on typically underserved demographics, and founded PAUSE with the mission of creating “spaces that produce safe, culturally-specific, and expert-informed grief and end of life resources serving Communities of Color.”
Black and other historically-marginalized or excluded communities in the U.S. face additional burdens when it comes to grief and the grieving process. “For many people of color, the fear, exhaustion and constant grief that all come from regularly dealing with various forms of discrimination are compounded when additional trauma piles on,” Forneret wrote in a HuffPost article about a year after launching PAUSE.
On top of that, Black folks disproportionately face experiences that cause grief, especially at a younger age: Compared to whites, Black Americans are 20 percent more likely than whites to lose a sibling by age 10; 50 percent more likely to lose a sibling by age 60; and three times more likely to lose a child before 70.
It’s these facts, and the further difficult realities that individuals face after losing a loved one, that Forneret wanted to respond to.
She told Evermore that her organization is exploring the tough questions: “Why [are] end-of-life-related outcomes and experiences different for people of color — and more importantly, how do we enhance that experience by centering identity?”
When drilling down into specifics, she said that PAUSE is seeking answers to queries like, “Why isn’t hospice as utilized by certain communities? Why do terms like palliative care not resonate with, alienate, or turn off certain communities? Why aren’t folks in healthcare settings currently making more culturally-specific referrals? Why are certain professions nervous about referring to doulas, healers, or creatives in the deathcare space?”
“These aren’t new questions, issues, or challenges,” she noted, but said that PAUSE is “hoping to achieve [new] ways of tackling them with different voices and perspectives at the forefront.” The end result, the changes, “come after asking those questions—it’s our hope to create new types of containers to not only have the discussions, but to also create sustained collaborative projects to address the answers.”
So far, PAUSE has developed an incubator of sorts for grief workers to pool their brain trusts and expand their reach. The Starlight Business Development Residency centers “people who are already doing the work in the community. We don’t want to recreate the wheel or take up space where others are already making impact,” Forneret told Evermore. The residency seeks to meet the needs of people of color who work in the deathcare field, who reported that most of the trainings and resources they had access to “were majority white-centered or highlighting western practices that didn’t fit with that didn’t fit with their way of thinking about the ways they wanted to run their business or serve their clients.”
PAUSE’s initial Starlight Residency welcomed 12 end-of-life entrepreneurs for six months; its second iteration, which launched in February, is getting even deeper: For 12 months, the residency will bring together six Los Angeles-based deathcare workers—from a variety of backgrounds, including the arts, coaching, and healing work—to connect, strengthen their skills, and expand the ever-growing community of BIPOC-focused grief facilitators and counselors.
That, she said, is her ultimate goal in her work. “My favorite person to talk to at a conference or a workshop is the person who says, ‘I had no idea I could find a Black, queer, LA-based death doula to refer my client to—can you make an introduction?’” Recognizing the intersectionality of the bereavement process is crucial, she said. “The most incredible impact we can make will come from being open to expanding our networks and acknowledging who can serve our clients best even if it’s not us.”
Dr. Julie Shaw, the founder of Hello I’m Grieving, participated in the inaugural Starlight Residency, and cites Forneret’s work as a guiding light and an inspiration: It “played a pivotal role in both my personal and professional growth,” she told Evermore. Each partner in PAUSE’s work “brings unique expertise to the table, making them invaluable resources within” the death and grief community.
“A crucial form of support” for this type of work “lies in fostering partnerships,” she said, highlighting the importance of PAUSE bringing people together. “This involves not only collaborating with fellow leaders in the grief space but also engaging with professionals from diverse industries who can contribute to the elevation and transformation of death and grief conversations.”
Shaw’s own journey in this space began when her sister died of Lupus in February 2020 but, she told Evermore, “It was only after months of introspection that I finally acknowledged my own grieving process. Taking a moment to ‘say hello’ to my grief, I wanted to extend that acknowledgment to others who may be experiencing similar pain.” To do so, she made T-shirts with the simple statement, which “became conversation starters wherever I went,” Shaw said, “prompting individuals to share their own stories of loss.”
These connections prompted her to train as a grief counselor, and now she works with companies to “help cultivate empathetic leadership, provide resources for supporting grieving employees returning to work, and offer guidance for grievers navigating their professional and personal lives after loss.”
In her practice, Shaw rejects “the idea that discussions of grief must always be somber,” and “draws from my background in athletics to offer motivation and coaching for individuals to navigate their grief journey while striving for personal growth.” As a gay Black and Filipino woman, Shaw told Evermore that she recognizes “the significance of…the intersectionality of grief with our identities” and how these inform “the way we experience and express grief, as well as how it’s perceived by others.”
The perception—or lack thereof—of grief is a subject that’s close to the heart of Nefertiti Moor, the founder of Dearly Bereaved. “Within the Black community…our grief is often swept under the rug and meant to be forgotten,” she told Evermore. “Most jobs don’t give bereavement leave, so a lot of us are ‘sucking it up’ and proceeding with life as if we are okay and we usually are not.”
Her work focuses primarily on “alternative deathcare” for the Black community, which she describes as “a more natural and aligned approach to what our ancestors did for our loved ones” that is rooted in “connection, love, and comfortability for the dying.” A large portion of this requires bridging the gap between many “alternative” practices that are often “whitewashed”; Moor makes sure she is in “more deathcare spaces” to offer outreach to grieving people who may not “feel very comfortable connecting with someone who doesn’t look like them or cannot connect culturally.”
Beyond her services like living funeral planning and grief meditation, Moor also offers guidance about navigating home funerals and green burials. These tools not only allow loved ones to grieve in spaces that are comfortable and familiar, they can cut down on the often-shocking expense of dying in America.
Like many burdens in America, the impact of grieving disproportionately affects communities of color—and, as Forneret expressed in her writing, these traumas are compounded by other, existing, ongoing injustices. That’s what makes work like her’s, Shaw’s, and Moor’s so important: It speaks to the specific needs of these communities, which are often pain points, but as Shaw told Evermore, can be infused “with empathy and even moments of fun” as the bereaved remember their late loved ones.
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Feb 23, 2024 | Community, Family, Grief
Bo-Hawg & Evermore, A Love Story:
A Deep-Fried Meaning Found in Grief
How Bo-Hawg owner Greenberry Taylor injected Evermore into Pig Fish’s DNA
Grease popping, no breeze, standing in direct sunlight, lifting coolers with 50 pounds of grouper, hands coated in cornmeal and batter, and a heat index of 107. Ah, those were the days.
That’s what it was like cooking seafood with my pops. My man LOVED this. A big reason is because he did this with his dad growing up. Later in life they began volunteering their services (and fish) as a way to help raise money for youth sports in our hometown. They would fry grouper, boil peanuts, boil shrimp — you name it, they did it.
So, it was only natural that my siblings and I grew up sharing this tradition with him. My brother and I even fried the fish, boiled the shrimp, and made the west indies salad for my wedding rehearsal dinner. Swear to god we were both back there frying fish as guests were walking up.
Anytime someone was strategizing how to raise money for their non-profit or event, pops was first to volunteer. “I’d like to donate the seafood and my services,” he’d say. People knew his reputation for frying up some of the best damn fish you’ve ever had in your life, so they were as happy to accept.
When he volunteered though, it meant we (his kids and whoever else he could wrangle) were also volunteering. My brother tells great stories of times my dad would casually say, “We’re cooking for so-and-so this weekend. It’s about 200 people.” Usually, he told my brother mid-week. Classic. He cooked for local churches, sports events, and individuals, but I will always remember cooking for Children of the World.
Children of the World, a non-profit that is an intercountry adoption service that places children in adoptive homes in Alabama. From my memory, I always remember this being in July. And to quote my man Stevie Wonder, it was hotter than July outside. Standing next to two, 30-gallon fryers with the butane fueled flames roaring so loud it sounded like a heavy breeze running through a tunnel just turned the temp dial up higher.
But my dad loved it. He loved the people that ran it. He loved what they did for kids and families. He always looked forward to this event, even though it was a lot of work.
What he did not like was the recognition. Pops never volunteered for the shine. Never to hear the words, “We’d like to thank G.B. Taylor for cooking.” In fact, I remember one time when they surprised him with an award in front of a ton of people. While he appreciated it, being recognized made him cringe. I’m pretty sure when they handed him the mic he said, “I don’t want this.”
I say all of this to let you know that giving back was something my dad was passionate about. I knew when I launched The Bo-Hawg that parts of him needed to be embedded in the fabric of who we are.
That is how I found Evermore.
I created a spreadsheet of nonprofits that focused on grief and/or bereavement. All-in-all I probably looked at 50. Next to each were their 2-3 sentence elevator pitch/mission followed by a transparency score or status (e.g., silver, gold, platinum, etc.). Looking at those scores and status awards, it was bananas how many shitty organizations there are “dedicated to grieving.”
GRIEVING! Literally one of the most jarring life experiences a human can face, and people are taking advantage? Truly disheartening.
My obsession with transparency stems from my time as a journalist. I never approached a story thinking I would be lied to; however, I always was conscious of the potential and therefore would do deep dives. Sometimes my notes really did look like that Charlie Day meme where there is red string spiderwebbed across a board and psychotic grin to match.
I also had just finished watching Telemarketers, a documentary that examines those bogus call centers that push charities. It is truly wild, and I recommend it if you are into those true crime type docs.
Apologies for the detour, back to finding Evermore.
I knew I wanted to team up with an organization that was “in the shit.” By that I mean people working, grinding, and making every effort to provide resources to those dealing with what I was (and still am) going through. Some non-profits are hands off, which is not a bad thing. But my experience is standing next to fryers in July, so I wanted someone in that same headspace.
And honestly, Evermore was not who I was expecting we’d link up with. They are big picture thinkers who are grinding to make nationwide change on a policy level for bereaved people. They have been featured in The New York Times, The Atlantic, on Good Morning America, and more!
“Surely these people will not have time for a small-time company like us,” I thought. “They’re just plug-and-play (meaning hands-off) at this point, and our small potatoes won’t mean anything.”
But the language on their site sounded so authentic, so personal. I could feel how they were talking about grief and loss and the indescribable f**king fallout that comes after losing someone. They even have this line on their mission page that says, “We need more than thoughts and prayers.” That’s exactly how I feel!
And to top it all off, they use data and science to help them push change. That is LITERALLY what I did for nearly 10 years of my life as a research scientist focused on patient-provider communication, mental health and emerging adults, and similar projects.
So, just like Travis Kelce…I shot my shot and sent an email to one of those generic addresses listed on a website. Two days later, I received a response from one of their team members, Jena, asking if we could set up a time to talk.
At this very moment, I am moved to tears thinking about that first call with Jena. I was totally expecting her to be all business with questions about what I could contribute financially, how things would work legally. I imagined it was going to be real sterile. Instead, she started the conversation out by saying this:
I read the story about the Pig Fish and your dad. It’s so wonderful that you created this for him. Can you tell me about him?
Seriously, I am sobbing reliving that moment. I couldn’t believe a few things, the first being that she read my website, the second that she wanted to hear about my pops. Man, I was taken back. I am pretty sure I got choked up because until then, sharing my pops with the world was just me writing and posting on social media. I was never really asked about him by a stranger.
The conversation we had was so beautiful. I talked about my pops and what I was going through in the wake of his death. She shared her own story of loss, which I will refrain from telling since it is not mine to share. And then, we talked about music and storytelling.
Jena explained that they imagined using the donations from The Bo-Hawg to put toward storytelling. She told me about Evermore’s belief in sharing others stories and the power that it holds. Given that my dad was a storyteller, and I am a storyteller, it could not have seemed more perfect.
“We don’t have a lot of sales right now, and I am really not sure when or if it will take off,” I admitted to Jena. “We aren’t worried about the money,” she said, “we just appreciate you thinking of us.”
Boom! Another moment I couldn’t believe was happening. She really didn’t care that we were small potatoes. It didn’t matter that our contributions might be small or large. What was important was that we shared the same values about helping those with grief.
The last 15 minutes we talked about the Grateful Dead and how Jena met her husband, how she got to see Billy Strings (a Pig Fish favorite) before he blasted into stardom, although she admitted he has always been a prodigy. I learned more about Joyal, Evermore’s founder. She is a badass, be sure to check her out!
The conversation wrapped with me communicating that The Bo-Hawg was not interested in promoting our relationship with Evermore on a large stage. That means no advertisements saying, “Part of all proceeds go to Evermore…” More and more on social media you see brands that advertise their contribution to a cause to move weight.
“Buy a shirt, plant three trees.” Or, “Save the turtles, buy a bracelet.” I am not knocking brands that do this. Heck, I imagine a lot of good does come from them! But my DNA for giving is the same as my dad’s. We are not doing it for the shine or to push our product. We are doing it because we care and want to help out an organization whose mission we believe in.
This post will be the only place on the site where I acknowledge our relationship, or whatever you want to call it. Its existence will only be known to those who purchase a product, talk about it organically, read this post, or if Evermore decides to share.
I am not an idiot. I know that at some point I might talk about our partnership if asked. Or we could collaborate on a design where all proceeds go to Evermore. If that does happen, please refer to this post. To quote Sean Carter, who will sometimes use verses from Christopher Wallace’s songs, “I say a B.I.G. verse, I’m only biggin’ up my brother.”
In other words, if The Bo-Hawg is talking about Evermore, we are doing so to raise visibility for them and their cause. Yes, a natural bi-product will be that our brand awareness might jump, but that’s just how it is. It’s not our goal or motive.
The Pig Fish is a cool design. I love it. It reminds me of my pops every time I see it. I love that people are wearing it. But I want it to have a deeper meaning, something that pops would stop and say, “That’s really cool. I’m glad it’s helping.”
I will close by saying that my mission will always be for the Pig Fish to evolve. Injecting Evermore into its DNA is just one way I believe that can happen. It also is awesome that this part of the evolution has pops in it.
Feb 12, 2024 | Community, Grief
Beyond Beats
Hip-Hop’s Journey Through 50 Years of Grief
By Nora Biette-Timmons
Last year, American culture celebrated 50 years of hip-hop. At the 2023 Grammys, some of the genre’s most legendary performers—Missy Elliot, Busta Rhymes, Ice T, Method Man—performed snippets of their groundbreaking songs in an exhilarating, 13-minute mash-up performance. The facade of the main building of the Brooklyn Public Library was lit up with Jay-Z lyrics. CBS hosted an hour-and-a-half long celebration featuring the genre’s biggest names. It was a joyful time.
But as journalist Danyel Smith wrote in the New York Times Magazine, 50 years of hip-hop also carries the baggage of half a century of Black death, especially that of Black men. “So much of Black journalism is obituary,” she reflects. “Early deaths — literal, artistic, carceral — are commonplace. And Black men in hip-hop exist in an endless loop of roller-coaster success, hazy self-worth, bullets, fame and its cousin, paranoia.”
Smith has covered hip-hop and the music industry for decades, and put together an accounting of “people in hip-hop who died before their time,” she says at the start of her article. “Almost all of them are Black men. With hesitation, I stopped at 63.” She weaves their stories through the following column as if she’s crafting a mosaic of untimely deaths, including each individual’s biggest accomplishment or contribution to the genre within sections based on their causes of death—bullets, intentional or otherwise; the results of self-medication with various substances; the tragic results of long-term health issues; and plain old accidents.
She does not attempt to create some grand narrative or explanation—she merely astutely notes: “All of this could be considered the fallout of a genre born under extreme duress. It was the Bronx in the 1970s: Fire stations were closing, and landlords were paying arsonists to burn buildings to the ground.”
Though the Bronx—and hip-hop—have been changed (and exerted change) dramatically since 1973, the pain, trauma, and grief that hip-hop fans and creators alike experience has not. And because the genre has only continued to explode in popularity, many mental health practitioners have brought it into their therapeutic toolboxes.
Dr. Edgar Tyson first coined the term “hip-hop therapy” in the 1990s, according to the website for his organization, Hip Hop Therapy. In a 2002 academic paper describing his pioneering research, Tyson wrote that “treatment innovations that are culturally sensitive and demonstrate promise through empirical research are of significant importance to practitioners working with at-risk and delinquent youth,” but noted that rap and hip-hop music was not one of those “culturally sensitive” tools that had been thoroughly explored yet. His initial study, which measured mental health notions like self-conception and peer relations, was conducted with youth living in a shelter in Miami who had already experienced traumatic situations despite their young age (the average ages were 15 and 16 years old): Some had been exposed to abuse and/or parents with substance addiction, or had addiction issues themselves.
Those in the HHT (or hip-hop therapy) group listened to songs, and then discussed the lyrics, with a moderator guiding them to pay “particular attention to relevant themes in the music,” Tyson writes. “All songs discussed had themes relevant to improved self identity, peace, unity, cooperation, and individual and (ethnic) group progress.”
In terms of getting the teenage participants to open up and address their own struggles, the results were conclusive: “All group members stated that they enjoyed the HHT group sessions more than any previous group session that they had been involved in at the shelter. Secondly, all youth in the HHT group expressed excitement and enthusiasm for the group sessions and all youth pleaded with the author to continue using this group method after the study ended.”
They made clear that the specific intervention Tyson introduced appealed to them: The majority said in qualitative interviews that “they appreciated the ‘respect’ for ‘their’ music” in the HHT group. “The most significant result of the study” was that “four of the youth expressed a desire to create their own rap songs and then share and discuss these songs.”
In an obituary on Fordham University’s website, where Tyson taught and researched until 2018 when he died suddenly of a heart attack at age 54, a colleague noted that Tyson’s work focused not on the negative aspects of hip-hop—which often face aggressive scrutiny in the media (scrutiny that is often based in racist frameworks and full of unfair stereotypes)—but rather on hip-hop’s “ability to contribute to healing and wellness.”
Tyson’s initial work has been built on by multiple other practitioners, including J.C. Hall, who now runs a hip-hop therapy studio at Mott Haven Community High School in the Bronx—returning to hip-hop’s original home turf. Hall happened to encounter HHT at Fordham, and worked under Tyson’s tutelage. Hall had his own severe mental health issues as a teen, and writing music helped him get through it; he melded that experience with HHT’s existing research and developed a program that focuses on creating hip-hop songs as an expressive arts therapy tool.
Hall told ABC News that the impact of his work is clear on a daily basis: “I have seen [the students] work through the losses of multiple people in their lives. … I have seen it bring clients back from the brink of serious self-harm and suicide.”
https:///vimeo.com/278667750
Hip-hop is useful as a tool for handling grief and trauma—and not just as a clinical therapeutic tool.
Many of the industry’s most famous artists have sung honestly about the pain they’ve had in their lives. From Megan Thee Stallion’s “Anxiety” (in which she talks about her own mental health struggles) to Kendrick Lamar’s “Mr. Morale & the Big Steppers,” which NPR’s Rodney Carmichael described as “an album “fueled by grief” that tells “stories of, like, generational trauma and sexual abuse and its impact not only on the Black family but really using his own family to kind of, like, reveal the root of his insecurities.”
On r/hiphopheads 10 years ago, a reddit thread for hip-hop fans, one user posted that a family member had taken his life, and the commenter was now seeking songs to help handle the situation. The post received over 100 comments of support, with dozens of recommendations, from “Thugs Heaven” by Nas, to “In Due Time” by OutKast (featuring CeeLo Green) to Chance The Rapper’s “Everybody’s Something.”
In each reply sharing songs that fit the poster’s request, the commenters also all express sorrow for the loss, and one even saying, “I’m glad you feel safe expressing your loss on HHH [hip-hop heads].” The support reveals another element of hip-hop’s therapeutic magic: It creates community where it might not otherwise exist.
Sep 10, 2023 | Advocacy, Community, Family, Federal Government, Grief
Visionary & Trailblazing Attorney Kenneth Feinberg Offers Five Reflections On Bereavement
After serving thousands of families, victim compensation attorney Kenneth Feinberg offers five reflections on grief and bereavement.
By Joyal Mulheron with support from Maddie Cohen
Visionary and trailblazing attorney Kenneth Feinberg has long been called upon by U.S. presidents, families, and survivors to navigate payouts following mass tragedies. He started his career as a settlement specialist for Agent Orange, but is renowned for his leadership in overseeing the 9/11 Victim Compensation Fund (VCF), where he served families for 33 months pro bono.
On the morning of September 11, 2001, Feinberg was teaching class action mediation at a law school in Philadelphia. By the end of class, the world had changed.
By mid-November, Congress established the 9/11 VCF to compensate the thousands of people who lost a loved one or suffered a physical injury. Feinberg distributed over $7 billion to victim’s families.
During Evermore’s 2020 Digital Summit, Feinberg shared his reflections with Anita Busch, VictimsFirst President, on working with tragically bereaved families from the 9/11 attacks and the many other compensation or memorial funds from other tragedies.
Here are five reflections Feinberg offers for supporting bereaved families:
1) There is no one way to grieve.
Families grieve in different ways. Negotiating trauma yields a range of responses, including anger and disappointment to uncertainty and love.
Feinberg admits that when he accepted his assignment in 2001, he had no clue how emotional the work would be. Granted, the situation was emotional—but the thought of disappointing grieving families felt impossible.
2) Permission to grieve and a commitment to listening.
During these confidential conversations, he notes that families must be permitted to grieve. The door should be open for each individual to share their perspectives about life’s unfairness and to discuss or validate the memory of a lost loved one.
3) Language matters.
According to Feinberg, a less-is-more approach is best. Even people with good intentions risk saying the wrong thing when they try to show empathy after a tragedy. The families of victims and survivors might not want to hear someone else’s take on their grief, no matter how well the other party means.
Feinberg recalls meeting a bereaved father whose two children worked at the Pentagon. The man’s daughter narrowly escaped through a side door, and his son died looking for his sister.
When Feinberg met this father, he said something he deeply regretted.
This is a tragedy,” he stated. “It’s terrible. I know how you feel.”
The man offered Feinberg some friendly advice. “You have a tough job to do,” he said. “But you have no idea how I feel.”
Feinberg learned a life-altering lesson that day. And he cautions others to be careful as well. While intentions are important, language is too.
4) Be transparent.
The attorney recommends giving grieving families all the information they need in a private setting. It’s a matter of protocol, Feinberg explains—but that protocol is an important first step for people in a fragile emotional state. He adds that keeping the door open in this way has been a key factor in the success of programs like the VCF.
From the community’s perspective, Feinberg clarifies that the most important part of a community’s response to tragedy is transparency. Sharing how the greater community can help and how the distribution of compensation or assistance will work. When the world feels uncertain, clarity becomes even more essential for bereaved families.
5) Empathy matters.
No matter what anniversary it is, shedding light on the importance of empathy matters. Families understand the grief they are navigating and recognize that you cannot bring back their loved ones. Genuinely listening and learning about who they’ve lost can help.
To learn more, Feinberg shares his experiences with victim compensation in the books What is Life Worth? and Who Gets What? In 2020, Netflix released Worth, a movie starring Stanley Tucci and Amy Ryan, plus Michael Keaton as Feinberg, showcasing the challenges in the wake of 9/11.
Key resources
Readers can learn more about bereavement care and acknowledge the anniversary of 9/11 by visiting the links below:
Sep 2, 2023 | Advocacy, Community, Family, FMLA, Grief, Parent
A Grieving Parent Turns Pain into a Purpose
Following the death of his teenaged son, Blake, Tom Barklage fought to secure bereavement leave for Johnson & Johnson employees around the world
By Maddie Cohen
After his son Blake died, Tom Barklage took time off to make space for his grief. Little did he know the loss would result in a push to expand his employer’s bereavement care. Today, the high-level manager has made it his mission to change lives for the better.
Grief alters the course of a parent’s life
The death of a child changes a person—and Tom remembers October 30, 2021, like it was yesterday. His son, then 17, was attending an evening gathering with friends when he lost consciousness. A short time later, he died in the hospital of an unknown heart issue: lymphocytic myocarditis.
Tom, his wife Alison, and their daughter Alexis were devastated. Yet Johnson & Johnson (J&J), where Tom has worked for almost 20 years, stepped up to the plate. The company president held a moment of silence in Blake’s honor at an immunology town hall, and Tom’s boss was gracious about his leave. Months later, J&J gave Tom an additional day off on April 7—Blake’s birthday and the day they buried his ashes—and catered a meal for the Barklages and their guests.
Yet Tom struggled. His employer’s official bereavement policy was just five days. And while the pharmaceutical expert could leverage flex days or “take a knee,” those moments his grief became too much, there was little time to process the complexity of his loss.
Not only that, but Tom realized others might not have the same accommodations. Not everyone at J&J had 18 years’ tenure or the flexibility of working in the field.
A push for flexible bereavement care
Tom set out to change J&J’s bereavement policy. He was determined to honor Blake’s legacy and respectfully challenge the status quo.
The process was far from simple—but Tom had to start somewhere. He began by sharing his thoughts with his boss, and then reaching out to J&J’s Vice President of Human Resources. The goal was to bring awareness to the cause. And while Tom’s advocacy sparked discussion, it wasn’t so straightforward. J&J was in the midst of global change, and some stakeholders thought it best to wait a year.
Plus, Tom was still grieving.
Company leaders were skeptical, but the key account manager reassured them. He explained that he was absolutely in his right mind, and that his advocacy was a matter of great importance.
“It helps to have something to fight for,” he explained.
Now, Tom isn’t advocating for a specific number of days off. He is simply promoting a more flexible bereavement policy—for everyone.
Because parents deserve it. And because, in Tom’s words, Blake had a remarkable ability to use the past to make an even brighter tomorrow.
“That’s why it’s so important for me to give back,” Tom says. “I know that if this bereavement policy goes through, the day that I retire from J&J, I can sit there and say, ‘Blake, we did it.’”
On August 1st, Johnson & Johnson released this statement: We all need to step away from work sometimes, and taking time to heal from the loss of a loved one shouldn’t be an additional worry. As part of our newly-expanded global paid leave offerings, every employee around the globe has access to up to 30 days of dedicated paid leave time for bereavement. Learn about all the ways we offer flexibility to enable everyone on our team to succeed at work while also balancing personal and family needs.
J&J Employee Benefits
Honoring Blake Barklage’s legacy
In 2022, the Barklage family started the Blake Barklage Foundation, also known as Blake Gives Back. The nonprofit supports charitable initiatives focused on intellectual disabilities, education, organ donation, and the prevention of cardiac arrest in children and young adults.
Readers can learn more about Blake’s life and legacy by visiting the links below:
Read the heartfelt letter Tom Barklage sent to Johnson & Johnson.
My name is Tom Barklage and I am a J&J employee of 17 years. I’ve valued the culture at J&J as an employee given the priorities its maintained in support of families and patients worldwide for decades. This email is not easy one to write. Last month, on October 30th, my 17-year-old son Blake suddenly passed away from an undetected heart issue. As a parent, this is the hardest thing my wife and I have ever dealt with. I lost my father a year ago and one of my brothers passed away 10 years ago. Losing my dad and brother was tough, but losing my son is gut wrenching. As I write this, I am struggling to see the keyboard through my tears, but I will get through this.
The company policy of 5 condolence days is a policy I am having a difficult time understanding. As you can imagine, when an employee has the unfortunate experience of losing a child, spouse, partner, etc. the ability to
return to work and be productive is almost if not entirely impossible with only 5 days to recover. Grieving the loss of a child is crushing and deeply personal.
I received the recent J&J employee announcement about the new parental leave providing employees paid leave from 8 weeks to 12 weeks. That is great news!! Wonderful policies like this are one of the reasons I love working at J&J! In the Communication it stated that “J&J has a long history of supporting family health because we believe that advancing health for humanity starts at home.” I agree with that 100%!!
The reason paternity leaves are expanding is because someone raised this as an issue to be re-evaluated. Someone had an experience that wasn’t equitable. It started with a conversation and gained momentum from there. That is what I am trying to do. The loss of a child or close loved one is a monumental event that meets or exceeds the emotional/physical needs of a parent/spouse at the time of a birth. I was blessed to be at the birth of my son Blake and daughter Alexis. Losing Blake is so much harder and difficult to deal with. Please do not take this the wrong way. I am not trying to make it about me. My management team whom I work for have been very accommodating!! The support I received from my Janssen family has been phenomenal.
I went back and forth debating if I should send this note to you. I don’t want to come across as being disrespectful or ungrateful towards J&J. J&J has provided my family and I with opportunities that we are blessed to have. I am so happy to be part of the J&J family. But I know my son Blake, he would want me to raise this concern and ask to consider changing the policy to allow for more time for employees to work through their grief process. As I said earlier, it is not just about me. It’s about the other J&J employees too who have suffered loss and are still committed to their jobs and the purpose they find in their work. Our credo states, “We must support the health and well-being of our employees and help them fulfill their family and other personal responsibilities.” I understand that a change like this can’t happen without gaining as much information as possible and ensuring a diverse set of opinions are gained. I would like to be the catalyst for this change and happy to speak to you. Will you and your leadership team consider re-evaluating our company policy on condolence leave? If you would like to meet in person or connect via Zoom, please know that I would welcome that opportunity.
Sincerely,
Tom Barklage
Janssen Immunology
Senior Key Account Manager
