Cemetery Selfie

Jessica Ferri
Jul 21, 2017 · 6 min read

In the suburban sprawl where I grew up, in order to go anywhere—to drive anywhere, that is—you had to pass a church in a major intersection with an adjoining cemetery. I drove past this cemetery every day of my life for eighteen years, at least twice, if not several times a day.

Cemeteries are relegated to the outskirts of our daily existence. We’ve even developed strange traditions, like holding your breath as you pass one, to deal with our anxieties about death. Most people visit cemeteries for a funeral, or to pay their respects to a loved one.

When I attended Sunday School at that same church, we frequently ventured outdoors to play or complete some kind of arts and crafts project too messy for the classroom. While the other kids chased each other or gathered sticks for some unknown purpose, I was drawn to the outer limits of the parking lot, which bordered the cemetery. There I found a small grave with an above-ground stone casket. It was cracked, and the lid had partially broken off into the yellow grass. I don’t know what I expected to see, exactly, probably bones. But just as my foot stepped into the plot to get a closer look, my teacher called me back to the group with a look of disapproval on her face.

As an adult, I’ve been lucky enough to accompany my husband when he travels for work, meaning I usually have the day to explore on my own. For the past few years I’ve taken this opportunity to visit as many cemeteries as I can, ranging from famous, like Forest Lawn, in Los Angeles, to obscure, like St. James Episcopal, in Marietta, Georgia, pictured above.

This freedom has allowed me to pursue my obsession with cemeteries when a traveling companion might put a damper on the idea. As one said, “it just makes me sad.” It’s an understandable reaction—especially if the cemetery is neglected. But I find that there’s little else in my life that offers the meditative quality of a long walk in a cemetery. Where else can you escape the noise and crowds of a large city for some much needed peace and quiet? And, if it’s history or knowledge you’re after, you’d be hard-pressed to find a better primer on a place’s past. As an added bonus, most cemeteries are free and open to the public every day, not to mention their surprising and stunning physical beauty.

After a trip to Los Angeles in the summer of 2016, I launched Dearly Departed, which began as a chronicle of my cemetery adventures on Instagram. About a year later, I shot a pilot for what I envision as a travel series—the No Reservations of cemeteries. I’m in the midst of writing a book and a podcast as well, all under the Dearly Departed umbrella. The project fits nicely within the Death Positive movement, which is largely female-led. Its mission statement could be summarized to encourage people to think about death in their daily lives and to relieve the anxiety and stigma associated with the end of life. It’s my hope that Dearly Departed helps to tell the fascinating stories I’ve encountered in my travels of cemeteries, which have helped me to realize that when we talk about death and dying what we are really talking about is life and what makes us human.

Nothing puts things in perspective better than a reminder that you will die. The cemetery—the tombstone, the mausoleum, the crypt, the epitaph—is the object of this reminder, its memento mori. The sheer number of graves can be overwhelming. At New York’s Calvary Cemetery, more people are buried in Queens, about three million, than live in Queens, about 2.3 million. You can visit the gorgeous grounds of America’s first park cemetery, Mount Auburn, in Cambridge, and read Emily Dickinson’s impressions of her visit there in 1846, when she was sixteen. You can make a pilgrimage to visit the resting place of your favorite writer, or artist. Or you can simply take a stroll, alone with your thoughts and dreams for the future.

When I visit the cemetery, I’m often the only living person about, with the exception of New Orleans, whose cemeteries seem to have become part of its tourist-worthy sites. Out of respect for the dead, I do not use my phone, except to take photographs. It’s one of the only times I am not attached to my cell phone, constantly checking my e-mail or social media accounts. If there is a funeral or another visitor clearly paying respects, I steer clear. Occasionally I will run into another obsessive like me, sheepishly carrying a large camera. Though I try to smile and say hello, there’s usually no interaction. I sometimes help people trying to locate a notable grave, but that’s rare. Even rarer are the times when a mourner actively seeks out my company, or, unbelievably, asks if I need help. Those moments, when I learn so much about a stranger’s grief, are incredibly precious in nearly every sense of the word.

We’ve all had those patches in our lives, when nothing seems to go right, or there’s a weighty decision to make, hanging over our heads. An argument with a family member or partner feels like it’ll never be resolved. The cemetery reminds us that we had better figure it out. The cemetery reminds us that we should do the work that matters to us. The cemetery reminds us that we should tell the people we love that we love them. It’s a shame that an entity that provides so much clarity for the living could have become so maligned and stigmatized in our culture.

Barthes wrote that photography is all about death. “Whether or not the subject is already dead, every photograph is a catastrophe. The defeat of time—that is dead, that will die.” The selfies I’ve taken in cemeteries stand as a reminder of the emotions I was struggling with that day—what was going through my mind, and how I came out on the other side. Like the visit to the cemetery itself, the selfies serve as a chronicle that I was there. They are a reminder that despite all the noise, it is possible to be present in our own lives.

The next time you’re feeling restless, visit your local cemetery. Go ahead, the gates are most likely open. Most close around 4, or 5. Larger cemeteries like Green-Wood, in Brooklyn, host events and have later summer hours. Instead of sitting at home, hungover with anxiety over the impending work week, go take a walk in the most overlooked zen garden available to you. You won’t regret it.


Jessica Ferri is a writer based in Brooklyn, New York. Follow her cemetery adventures at Dearly Departed.

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Jessica Ferri

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www.jessicaferri.com

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