The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
b-side
Thursday, February 7, 2019 — 5B
Searching for ancestors
in Forest Hill Cemetery
‘Mile High’
James Blake
Polydor Records
MUSIC VIDEO REVIEW: ‘MILE HIGH’
As it begins, the music
video for James Blake’s “Mile
High,” starring Blake and
Travis Scott, doesn’t make
much sense. The lead single
from Blake’s Assume Form
is ethereal and dark, but the
very beginning of the video
provides a stark contrast.
Blake is seated by himself
in the “Mile High Cafe” and
is soon joined by an overly
enthusiastic
Travis
Scott,
who
begins
to
question
his
high-octane
lifestyle,
ludicrously
declaring
that
he is considering not using
a cellphone anymore. As he
says all of this, Blake stares
at a cup of tea and begins to
zone out. The camera position
changes from third person
to first person, shot through
the pupil of James Blake. As
the song begins, an image of
Blake falling through space
is overlaid with a crooning
Scott.
The remainder of the video
finds the two men firmly
planted
in
Blake’s
mind
as the camera seemingly
floats from Blake to the
ether and back to Scott.
From this point onward, the
video and the song begin to
synchronize. By itself, the
song details the ponderings
of old relationships; however,
with the music video, these
thoughts
seem
so
much
more critical because they
take place in the depths of
Blake’s mind. Blake and Scott
are essentially two parts
of Blake’s inner voice, and
the music video details the
conflict within Blake. Scott
embodies the inner voice of
Blake that wants to hold on
to an old relationship, but
as Blake sings, he tries to
convince himself that, at this
point in his life, it will never
last.
As the video comes to a
close, James Blake wearily
exits the recesses of his
thoughts. As he returns to the
Mile High Cafe, a concerned
Travis Scott attempts to get
Blake’s attention — he waves
his arms in front of his face
and genuinely asks, “(y)ou all
right?”
— Jim Wilson, Daily Arts
Writer
POLYDOR
A lot of people have asked me
to preside over their funeral. They
usually pop the question about a
year into our relationship, when
I’ve been worn down to the sort
of loyalty that compels careful
documentation of their requests
(a note in my phone titled “friend
funerals”). This has happened
frequently enough, unprompted,
for me to identify with it in a way,
as if making sure my friends go out
in the manner they desire is some
spiritual duty I was chosen for
way, way back. I mean, how else do
I explain such a macabre pattern
to myself?
Don’t get me wrong, I take it
very seriously. Derek wants the
full 15 minutes of Maurice Ravel’s
“Bolero” as his urn of ashes is
slowly wheeled up to the front. My
roommate has requested Frank
Ocean’s “Novacane” while her
brothers process with her soaring
coffin, each one assigned specific
lines to perform throughout (A.J.
gets “cocaine for breakfast, yikes”).
An individual whose identity I
must protect has this vision where
their cremated remains are served
to their extended family in a
lavish seven-course meal, the end
of which features me delivering
a speech revealing what (or,
more specifically, who) has been
eaten. Nicoletta simply wants
to be mauled by a hellhound, no
fuss about it. That one’s a little
complicated
because
I’m
not
exactly sure how to gather the
resources, but lord knows I would
walk 500 miles and 500 more to
secure some Cerberus for that
queen.
My cousin Sarah thinks it’s
the darndest thing, that it’s more
complimentary than being asked
to do something totally normal
and fun with my friends while
they are, say, alive.
“It’s such a testament to your
character!” she told me, totally
stoked, sipping Pét-Nat around an
October fire in Northern Virginia.
“These people are looking at you
like, ‘Oh that chick? I can trust
her with my death.’” Pretty metal.
Verity Sturm: Funeral planner.
This is a long way of explaining
why I wasn’t all that surprised
when my editor, Clara Scott, told
me I would be the “perfect person”
to write about the cemetery for her
B-side. To be honest, I had a lot
to do that week, the temps were
looking like a soft 50 below zero,
but hey. It wasn’t even a question,
because this is the line of work I’ve
been chosen for. Duty calls.
That being said, I wasn’t about to
die walking around the cemetery
next to Markley in a polar vortex.
It’s just not the end I’ve envisioned
for myself. Instead, I dealt with
the extreme weather by fleeing the
state like a responsible adult. By
the time I returned it was sunny
and 40, yes, but this deadline was
looming and I had squat. I sauced
onto the cemetery’s website in a
jiffy and started dicking around,
looking for something, anything.
The
Forest
Hill
Cemetery
describes itself as “an unfinished
landscape that welcomes all,”
the private, non-profit brainchild
of a 1857 collab between some
University of Michigan profs and
“a group of leading Ann Arbor
businessmen.” Synergy, baby. She
buries the dead. The cemetery’s
design
emulates
the
“rustic
and rural cemetery tradition”
popularized
in
19th-century
France, notable for its rolling
expanse of land, abundance of
trees and displacement from town
and churchyard.
18,000 people are buried at
Forest Hill, but there’s room
for 8,000 more, although prices
range from a modest 835 dollar
cremorial unit to that skinny 3145
dollar
glass-front
middle-row
spot in the coveted Columbarium.
The hellhound would probably be
cheaper, but investment in Forest
Hill secures your remains in
exciting proximity to those of local
celebs like John Allen, founder
of Ann Arbor, and the popular
spiritual guru Bo Schembechler.
Forest Hill Cemetery boasts
a sparse Facebook account (not
a page — a full-on user account),
65 gothic acres and 4.7 stars on
Google. Most importantly, its
website features a robust database
of
historical
information
on
those buried there (leave it to a
University cemetery to incorporate
data frames into their business,
some undergrad is totally getting
whipped to parse that shit, RIP my
dude). Anywho, if you scroll down
the bottom of the “Internment”
page, you’ll run into a regal little
search bar, all burgundy and warm
gray and curly serifs inviting you
to just type in your own name
and see what happens (excellent
UX). I’m always looking out for
the Sturms of this world, so before
I even realized what I was doing,
my surname appeared in the bar
and I was smashing that “search”
button.
Lo and behold, there are Sturms
buried in Forest Hill. Two, to be
exact: Henry and Carl. My own
kith and kin? Next to Markley?
Spooky. I immediately shot an
inquiry to the unique void that is
the parent group chat, demanding
intel on a Carl or Henry in the
family tree. My parents, god love
them, were wholly unhelpful. My
mother responded immediately
with
the
robotically
urgent
question-statement “ARE YOU
IN
CEMETERY.”
My
father
took a more nostalgic approach,
reminding me that “We are from
Pfaffenhoefen (German flag emoji)
near Augsburg and Munich. Fun
loving Bavarians!” Thanks guys.
The unique void never fails to be
uniquely voidy. It looked like this
fun-loving Bavarian was taking
matters into her own hands.
This is how I spent Sunday
morning pacing about Forest Hill
Cemetery in the sun and mud,
hungover as hell, searching for my
ancestors.
I can see how Forest Hill would
be an interesting, sexy area to
wander around for the sake of
wandering. It’s not a particularly
happening spot on campus, so
the whole place is softened with a
silence that grows thicker as you
move through the first few rows
of crumbling graves and into the
acres and acres of dead beyond.
And winter looks good on the
dead: The contrast between stone
and snow, light and dark, brings
sinuous attention to the curve
and corner of every tombstone,
monument and oak. By Sunday, the
melting snow had collected into
massive pools of still water that
snaked around entire family plots
like moats, protecting them from
the scrutiny of people like me. I
was a minute visitor in a massive,
permanent place: I felt powerless,
alone and good.
But the thing is, I wasn’t really
wandering. I was looking for
Sturms. And let me tell you, Forest
Hill is a hard place to navigate
if you’ve got an agenda. There’s
a map online, sure, but it kind of
resembles a Matisse cut-out (when
I asked my roommate what she
thought it was, she told me “fish,
parrot or crab”). The database
told me that Henry and Carl were
buried in plot 82, but the plots
progress in an order far from
VERITY STURM
Daily Books Editor
VERITY STURM / DAILY
B-SIDE SECONDARY
numeric and aren’t physically
labeled on site. Forty minutes into
my expedition, I was frustrated,
lost and nauseous to boot. I had
a meeting in half an hour, I had
a hangover and I had a lot of
doubt. 65 acres of mind-numbing
tombstones studded out in every
direction. I needed a sign.
As if on cue, I registered a sort
of skidding sound in the distance,
surprising me out of my solitary
funk. And then a woman fell
from the sky — one of the most
beautiful women I’ve ever seen,
honestly, crashing into the snow
in a melee of curly hair and plaid.
My jaw dropped. I was so lost in
the sauce I thought someone had
sent me an angel or a demon or
something, but then the context
arrived: A longboard, late, trailing
in after her (the skidding noise)
and a man on his board, also
beautiful. He helped her up, they
gave me an awkward, beautiful
acknowledgement, and skated on
by. I was too stunned and nervous
to photograph them, so I took
a picture of the impression her
wipeout made in the snow. It felt
spiritual.
While taking that arguably
creepy shot, though, I accidentally
paid extra-special attention to
the family of graves she crashed
on, “Hawkes,” and realized that I
could orient myself in Forest Hill
by looking up the surrounding
graves on their database right then
and there. My phone told me the
Hawkeses were buried in plot 75
and boom, I kind of had a loose
idea of where I was. In a series
of searches, the Kau, Buzzo and
Loomis families all helped me
move closer and closer to plot 82,
and then I found them.
Carl and Henry were tucked
side by side as expected, but
there was a surprise to the left:
Wilhelmina, held at an awkward
grave’s length away, another Sturm
that somehow didn’t make the
database. How scandalous! While
photographing their wonderfully
austere, bevel-block gravestones,
though, I realized that these were
Sturmses, not Sturms. Indeed,
while my surname is singular,
theirs was plural: “Sturms.” The
heck? How wrong could the
database be? How much can we
trust … data?
I left Forest Hill a little miffed
by the inconsistencies; that is,
determined to resolve them. A
free ancestry.com trial later, I had
some answers. Carl, originally
Johann Joachim Hartwig, was
born in Mecklenburg, Germany
in 1823. He fell for a certain
Wilhelmina (“Minnie”) in 1856,
and the two came to the United
States in 1863, where they settled
in Ann Arbor and had five kids.
Carl lived to a solid 71 and Minnie
a goddamn impressive 91 (she died
in 1918!), but their only son, Henry
L., passed away tragically at the
age of 31 before marrying or siring
children of his own. All the dates
lined up exactly — these had to be
the people I found in Forest Hill.
Everything I read, though,
recorded their surname as “Sturm”
— singular, like mine. Why their
gravestones spell “Sturms,” then,
remains a mystery, not to mention
Minnie’s unexplained exclusion
from the Forest Hill database. And
why is Minnie buried at a distance
from her husband and son? And
how the heck did they get “Carl”
from “Johann Joachim Hartwig?”
Something’s fishy here, that’s for
sure. But I don’t have the time to
figure out exactly what, that is
also definitely for sure. Not now,
at least.
One thing is for certain: I don’t
think these people are technically
related to me. I’ve never heard
of a Carl/Johann or Minnie/
Wilhelmina in my Sturm ancestry,
and Henry died before he could
even pass it on, anyway. My dad’s
text about Pfaffenhoefen actually
came in handy when I pulled
up a map to see if Mecklenburg
was close enough to continue
entertaining the notion. Turns
out it’s on the literal opposite side
of the country, those Sturms are
absolute north while my clan hails
from the southiest south. Unless
the Sturms somehow spawned
across the entire nation, it’s not
looking likely. So it goes.
Genetics aside, I feel like I’m
related to these Sturms. I have
tracked them down, visited their
grave and learned their history.
And I’m caught up in their
mysterious forces — the flying
woman who eventually led me to
them, the little mysteries in the
details of their burial. They’re
haunting me, taking on new
life in my vulnerable, adjective-
laden brain: The displaced and
introspective Carl, his fiery-fresh
bride Minnie and the tragic story
of their precious Henry, taken
too soon. It’s as if these Sturms
have come to me, like Derek and
Nicoletta, and asked me to do the
thing I do, to preside over their
death.
These
Sturms
don’t
want
Frank Ocean or a seven-course
meal, though. They’ve requested
a Michigan Daily article, and a
second life via imagination —
yours and mine.
If that ain’t supernatural, I don’t
know what is.
VERITY STURM / DAILY
VERITY STURM / DAILY