When the last of the mourners left and undertaker Shawn Troy was left between the tombstones, he cried alone.
For five decades, the closing words at funerals in this city of 4,400 people were given by his father, William Penn Troy Sr., American.
“I went over to his grave and could hear him talking to me,” said Shawn Troy. “And he said, ‘You got it. You can do it.’ … He passed the baton to me, so I have to start running. “
He is hardly alone. According to the association that represents them, around 130 black undertakers have died of COVID-19 since the beginning of the pandemic.
Funeral staff deaths are not closely followed. However, the National Funeral Directors Association, which represents the broader industry, said it had not seen a corresponding increase in COVID deaths among its members.
The death of black undertakers is particularly noteworthy because of the prominent role they have long played in many communities. Often admired for their business success, some – including the elder Troy – were elected to political office, served as local power brokers, and helped fund civil rights efforts.
At the same time, the “homecoming” services they organized often served as community touchstones that brought the mourners together with pomp, sermon and song.
Black funerals are “more like celebrations, and that is not disrespect to my colleagues across the country. We’re more intimate, ”said Hari P. Close, president of the National Funeral Directors & Morticians Association and operator of a funeral home in Baltimore. The association represents black undertakers.
The deaths have occurred despite concerted efforts by undertakers to protect themselves from the virus and limiting the size and scope of funeral gatherings to prevent it from spreading.
“We were bombarded with COVID bodies,” said Dr. Mary Gaffney, who stood in to run her brother Jeremiah’s funeral home in Inwood, New York after he died of the virus last May.
At least 95,000 black Americans have died from COVID and died at the highest rate of any racial group in the United States, according to an AP analysis of data from the National Center for Health Statistics
In Mississippi, the Lucerne funeral home “Sonny” Dillon tested positive for COVID earlier this year.
“Just in case I can’t get out of here, I want you all to do this,” he told his wife Georgia from a hospital bed in March. He died weeks later at the age of 72.
Family members tried to keep the funeral homes in McComb and Tylertown going in his absence.
But the role Dillon played outside of the morgue was barely fulfilling. In his twenties, he was one of the first black candidates to be elected to local political office. He later worked with the daughter of Martin Luther King Jr. to rename a boulevard for the slain civil rights activist. He urged more black citizens to vote.
Dillon’s civic role fitted a pattern common in many African American communities where undertakers have long been prominent, said Suzanne E. Smith, a professor at George Mason University who authored a book on the black funeral business.
Some of the best known include the Memphis, Tennessee Ford family, funeral directors who sent a father and son to Congress in Detroit, funeral director Charles Diggs Sr. was the state legislature before his son won a Washington seat and helped found the Congress Black helped the committee.
In cities across the south, funeral homes often delivered the limos for civil rights leaders who came to rallies.
At the end of the summer, Georgia Dillon prepared to hand over the company to her daughter and son-in-law.
“We talk and cry and try to build each other up. We tell ourselves we must keep his legacy, ”she said.
In New York City, Gaffney is trying to do the same after years of practicing medicine while her brother ran the funeral home her parents started.
During the first few months of the pandemic, Gaffney said she warned her brother, who had some chronic health problems, to isolate himself.
But his death weeks later, at the age of 65, presented her with responsibilities that were far beyond her expertise.
Given the rising number of deaths, she rented a refrigerated trailer to handle the overload. Every two weeks Gaffney drove from her home in Charlotte, North Carolina to New York to take on the responsibilities her brother had left behind.
“It’s been an emotional journey,” said Gaffney.
Troy from South Carolina faced slightly different challenges after years of working with his father.
The Troys had agreed that Shawn would take over the business for the next several years. But he had expected this with the advice of his father, whose death left a void far beyond the chapel.
Elder Troy, known as Penn, had served as district chairman, local school board member, and Church treasurer. But those were just his official duties.
“If my mother didn’t have enough to feed us, he would help us. If you talk about Mr. Penn, he was the ward, ”said Jessica Godbolt, a former neighbor.
When officials voted to close a school because of falling enrollments, Troy pushed for it to be turned into a science academy that attracted more students, said Cynthia Leggette, a longtime friend. Troy found that a civic committee advocating school improvement was mostly white and brought black parents into the community.
Last summer, both Troys were hospitalized with COVID. The first months after his death in August were the hardest.
Penn Troy’s charisma breathed life into the business of death. Shawn Troy had mainly worked behind the scenes.
Recently, just before sunset, Troy walked down a row of tombstones and planted tiny flags in an empty lot to mark for a funeral the next morning. Shadows spread over his father’s grave less than 15 meters away.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get over it,” he said. “But I will make it.”
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Associated Press reporters Allen G. Breed and Angeliki Kastanis contributed to this story.