The Unclaimed

A tiny forgotten Negro cemetery lies on the edge of land that used to be the family farm. I know where to find it because Mom pointed it out to me once. The casual eye would see a stand of pine trees and underbrush. But look close, and about six grave-sized dips add depth to the ground. The pine trees tower over them. Chances are, the ones who dug the graves and mourned their dead never had the money for markers more fancy than a wooden cross. None of those crosses remain. And even the mourners may now themselves be dead. Memories of this hidden cemetery popped into my thinking as I studied the long list of Missouri boards and commissions. I decided to apply to serve on the Unmarked Human Burial Consultation Committee. The committee, in consultation with the State Historic Preservation Officer, determines proper disposition of human remains, considers request by professional archaeologists for extensions of research time, and considers requests for methods of dating human remains. There are six slots on the committee. None is filled. I plan to wait patiently while Governor Jay Nixon considers my request to serve on the vacant committee. I know he has more pressing matters--like the quorum-desperate hair dressers. And I'm not the archeologist or Native American Indian that the committee creators really want. I'm a vanilla suburban mom with a wide streak of liberal. Qualified or not, this committee feels like a good fit to me. A remain that rests where it shouldn't be or where it has been forgotten deserves to be thought about. And I'm a thinker.