Our Kind of People do Not Pass Away

Mama and I are watching the news. The reporter uses a certain term to refer to a famous person’s recent death.

My mother turns to me. “When I die, I absolutely forbid you to write an obituary that declares I ‘passed away.’”

I laugh and assure her I’m quite clear on the rule.

Our kind of people know that to use “passed away” (or worse, just“passed”) instead of “died” is to live at the intersection of the vulgar, the twee, the lightly educated, and the precious. (One should never wish to reside at that crossroads.) People die. It is neither polite nor elegant to shun the frank language of death.

There is a class element here. To be overly fond of euphemisms is to out oneself as a socially anxious striver. I was taught that it was okay to say “sweat” instead of “perspire,” to say “toilet” instead of “restroom,” to say “napkin” instead of “serviette,” and to say “die” instead of “pass.” Trying too hard to demonstrate refinement invariably only proves its absence.

I’ll admit that when I am in a flowery mood, I use expressions like “My father was gathered to the ancestors,” but everyone understands that’s a literary affectation. No one would say it in an evening news broadcast. And yet, with increasing regularity, we hear “passed away” deployed by people who should know better.

We pass exams. We pass exits on the highway. We pass soccer balls and salt shakers. We pass gas.

We do not pass away.