DURHAM, N.C. — For Vannessa Mason Evans, the COVID-19 pandemic first struck in March when it killed her cousin in New York.
At 59, Evans could recall the big-city vacations from her youth — a country girl from Durham riding the subway through Brooklyn and the Bronx, her cousin acting as guide.
But there would be no funeral. No church supper. No public goodbye.
Next, the virus took a pair of aunts, both living in the same Durham nursing home.
Then a third aunt, Maxine, who was recovering from surgery. Then a neighbor. Then three friends from high school.
In all, Evans lost eight people to coronavirus between March and September. She has struggled to mourn in a world of face masks and social distance, where even a hug can be dangerous.
“Used to be you could go to a funeral, get it all out, make food for the family, reminisce about the good times,” said Evans. “Now, I think I’m still numb. Like somebody gave me a shot.”
Evans grew up in Braggtown, a historic Black neighborhood in Northeast Durham that has struggled to keep its identity as gentrified housing crept closer.
“I’m one of the ones they haven’t pushed out yet,” she said.
COVID-19 and the Black community
Evans is chair of the Braggtown Community Association and works as a community organizer for the nonprofit Reinvestment Partners, which provides housing counseling, tax assistance and money for fruits and vegetables.
She raised three daughters, all of them grown, and has long enjoyed family reunions on both sides of her family — both of which she can trace to slavery.
But COVID-19 adds a new kind of pressure.
The state Department of Health and Human Services reports that Blacks make up 31% of North Carolina’s COVID-19 fatalities despite having only 22% of the population.
Almost a third of Blacks nationwide know someone who died from coronavirus, more than three times the percentage of whites, according to a recent Washington Post-Ipsos poll.
In Evans’ case, all the friends and family members who died from coronavirus were around their 60s or 70s, the age bracket with the highest mortality rate.
But none of them, she said, had any immediate threats to their health before contracting the virus, and all of them saw their health spiral downward quickly.
The combined blow was great enough and enough of a surprise that she did not feel comfortable sharing the names of her loved ones. For their families, she said, the grief is still raw.
Also, she said, some would not want their relatives’ deaths from COVID-19 publicized. The Centers for Disease Control warns that stigma can follow a positive test result when people fail to understand how the virus spreads.
“No single person or group of people are more likely than others to spread COVID-19,” the CDC writes on its website.
Ice cream with Aunt Maxine
One aunt she would partially name, Maxine, stands out. Though on mentioning it Evans looked heavenward as if to reassure the others she played no favorites.
On Sundays, after church choir, Maxine would take her to McDonald’s for ice cream.
“After we did all that singing, we got to have ice cream,” Evans remembered. “My aunt was so feisty, so vibrant. She taught me be proud of my color, be proud of the community. And she used to dress from head to toe.”
Without a family reunion this year, Evans said both sides held Zoom meetings and allotted time to remember those who had passed.
But she gets tired of counting the deaths, writing them down in a notebook. She gets tired of trying to remember the dates.
So she tells herself this pandemic represents a season, not the future. The Bible warns she will walk through the valley of the shadow of death. But it doesn’t say she has to stay there.
“Learn to be patient and hold on because this, too, shall pass,” she said, sitting near the community garden outside Reinvestment Partners. “See how the sun is shining on my face? That’s Jesus kissing me.”
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