The white brick church on St. Louis Avenue lets visitors to Greenwood Cemetery know that their destination is nearby. The building is small, and if not for the wooden cross nailed to the top center of the church, I would have mistaken it for a home, the family that resided within, slightly more well-to-do than their neighbors. The building’s sign reads “Outta Love Christian Church,” welcoming believers and non-believers alike to drink from the fountain of Christ. Five feet to the left, Greenwood’s white brick post, with a green leaf delicately painted, welcomes visitors. It welcomes the descendants of those buried just as it welcomes strangers to the story of the cemetery and the lives of those in Greenwood. It welcomes historians as it welcomes first-grade classes learning about significant people in history. It welcomed Shelley and Raphael Morris in 1999, now leaders of the cemetery, and it welcomed me in the summer of 2023 as I sought to learn more about this burgeoning Saint Louis stronghold.
I pulled into what Shelley later told me was section A of Greenwood. With me at the helm, my Nissan Sentra’s tires tried to dodge the potholes on the asphalt ground beneath me. All attempts were futile.
Shelley waved at me as I entered the cemetery, motioning for me to park next to her red SUV, roughly 40 feet into the cemetery’s grounds.
The chain-linked fence in front of me attempted to separate Greenwood Cemetery from the neighbor’s home next door, but it failed; its rust and loose attachment caused its sudden collapse. “The neighbor’s dog loves to hop over the fence,” Shelley mentioned when I got out of the car. “They think it’s their backyard.” What a labrador may see merely as a play area has been the final resting place of over 60,000 St. Louisans since 1874. All of them are African American.
Greenwood Cemetery, founded by a White entrepreneur in response to an economic opportunity, emerged as the first non-sectarian burial ground in post-Civil War St. Louis specifically dedicated to the city’s burgeoning Black population. During a time when racial segregation barred Blacks from most other cemeteries, Greenwood Cemetery provided a crucial, albeit stark, reflection of the prevailing social inequalities. Its very existence underscores the systemic disparities that necessitated separate spaces for dignity in death, highlighting the deep-seated racial divisions of the era.
The chain-linked fence in front of me attempted to separate Greenwood Cemetery from the neighbor’s home next door, but it failed; its rust and loose attachment caused its sudden collapse.
In Greenwood Cemetery, six thousand headstones were found for the 60,000 people interred there. Some of these headstones beat the odds after years of neglect. Some are still intact. Others have been split in half due to vandalizing. Some of them just eroded. The grass in Greenwood cemetery grows fast, but Raphael Morris resolutely trims the blades, often on his own on weekdays. Together with his wife, Shelley, they lead the Greenwood Cemetery Preservation Association. Raphael serves as president and Shelley, the Secretary and the Treasurer, though the latter role only came of late.
“As more time passes, people get busier and busier.” She tells me. “Board members die. And responsibilities fall on the few.”
Raphael first discovered Greenwood decades ago. It was a weekday morning, and his family had a habit of keeping the TV in his living room on. Between buttoning a dress shirt and taking sips of coffee, the noise from the television gradually became distinct in the morning clamor.
“Someone turn that up?” Raphael asked, and one of his daughters did. The voice of the owner of Alexander Automotive, located across the street from Greenwood, filled the room. With waning business and customer complaints, he was convinced that the state of the neighboring cemetery was to blame for his woes.
Prior to the ’90s, Greenwood cemetery stood as a dignified final resting place for many of the city’s African American residents. On the day the business owner spoke on television, the cemetery lay in a state of profound neglect and decay. Overgrown with wild, tangled vegetation, the cemetery’s grounds were barely discernible beneath a thick carpet of ivy and brambles. If one was able to get an inch or two into the ground, one would see gravestones had succumbed to the relentless push of roots and the earth, gravestones that were well on their way to be swallowed by the encroaching flora.
Paths that once welcomed mourners and visitors vanished under a blanket of leaves and debris, leaving no trace of their former layout. Rust covered any iron surface and the fences, once serving as a boundary, laid useless on the ground. Despite the weathered structures and grounds, stories of a vibrant community of past leaders, musicians, and ordinary citizens pulsed under the surface. They mirrored the broader struggles of preservation and respect faced by many African American historical sites.
• • •
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Raphael often heard whispers of Greenwood among his family elders. They recounted tales of ancestors who left indelible marks on Saint Louis, finally finding eternal peace in Greenwood Cemetery. The cemetery’s neglect became a focal point of conversation in the living room that morning and lingered in Raphael’s thoughts throughout the afternoon. Yet, it was not until several years later that he felt a pull to engage more directly.
His commitment began with weekends. Raphael, along with a few newfound kin to Greenwood, ventured to the cemetery, diligently restoring it section by section. As time passed, interest ebbed; what started as a weekly ritual gradually shifted to every other weekend, with volunteers sporadically joining or departing.
During a time when racial segregation barred Blacks from most other cemeteries, Greenwood Cemetery provided a crucial, albeit stark, reflection of the prevailing social inequalities. Its very existence underscores the systemic disparities that necessitated separate spaces for dignity in death, highlighting the deep-seated racial divisions of the era.
Recognizing that weekends alone were insufficient, Raphael made a decisive move—he resigned from his job. His wife Shelley, who was employed at Ameren, followed suit, and together they dedicated their weekdays to the cemetery’s restoration.
“Some people take up golfing or traveling when they retire, but we took up preservation,” Shelley shared with a laugh.
Both Shelley and Raphael are modest when speaking about their influence. I perceive it in every corner. I sense their impact during our cleanup days on Saturday mornings when I arrive at the cemetery. Some weekends, I am joined by descendants; on others, college and high school students seeking volunteer hours. Occasionally, corporate groups arrive to fulfill their community service commitments of their company home pages. I recall one instance when, amidst the flurry of camera flashes, a company unfurled a banner that read a company value of diversity.
On each of these work days, I observed Shelley and Raphael Morris guiding and educating various groups that came to help, sharing the rich history of the site and their path with it.
Some days I helped plant trees. Other days I raked. Often though, I used an electric trimmer to weed the grass. Raphael always brought dozens of tools with him for those like me who had no tools or experience; a desire to help was the only equipment they required from us. We would labor tirelessly for three hours beneath the blazing St. Louis sun, each session ending with a sense of accomplishment. Yet, as we paused to survey our progress, it became evident that we had only managed to tend to a small fraction of a section of the cemetery. In these moments, the enormity and all-consuming nature of our task truly dawned upon us, emphasizing the continuous dedication required to preserve such a historic site. On one of the days, I helped uncover a new headstone and on another day, I fainted from heat exhaustion. Working at Greenwood was no small endeavor.
On a sweltering July Saturday, with temperatures soaring past a hundred degrees, Shelley gestured for me to approach. “There is a descendant I want you to meet,” she said, her voice carrying a mix of solemnity and warmth.
In these moments, the enormity and all-consuming nature of our task truly dawned upon us, emphasizing the continuous dedication required to preserve such a historic site. On one of the days, I helped uncover a new headstone and on another day, I fainted from heat exhaustion. Working at Greenwood was no small endeavor.
The woman, accompanied by her husband, had been in touch with Shelley for months. She had recently learned that the section where her mother was buried had been cleared, prompting her to visit. Despite Shelley’s efforts to pinpoint the exact location, no physical marker or gravestone remained; it had either eroded or been consumed by the elements over time.
As we walked towards Section A, Shelley conveyed to her that, although the tangible markers of her mother’s grave were gone, her presence was still palpable in the surroundings. Confused and overwhelmed by the absence of a marker, the woman found herself sobbing in her husband’s arms. It had been decades since she last visited the cemetery, deterred by the previously unkempt and overgrown conditions. This visit marked a poignant renewal of her connection to her mother. Now that the grounds were accessible, she could come more often, nurturing this rekindled bond with each visit. This opportunity for frequent visits served as a profound second act in her relationship with her mother, offering her a chance to honor and cherish her memory in a newfound way.
• • •
“We are confident this is where your loved one was buried.” I have heard Shelley Morris say that to sons and daughters, friends and grandchilden alike as they wept in each other’s arms and sometimes in Shelley’s. There are often no headstone or tombstone that can be adorned with flowers; there is only a grassy hill. In Greenwood Cemetery, there are no mausoleums to marvel at.
In the somber Section D of Greenwood Cemetery, a towering oak tree stands sentinel, casting its summer shadow over the resting places of Willie Mae Dent and the McShae family. This arboreal giant, defiant and unyielding, extends its roots with such authority that neither the silent pleas of the surrounding tombs nor the efforts of Mr. Morris can curb its relentless growth.
“Harriet Robbinson Scott is buried here.” Shelley told me on the first day I met her. “So is a World War One Veteran.”
Despite your earnest endeavors to locate this grave and pay homage, the task proves futile. While Willie Mae and the McShaes’ final resting places are visible to the public eye, Sergeant Parram’s grave succumbed to the relentless advance of the oak’s roots.
If one was able to get an inch or two into the ground, one would see gravestones had succumbed to the relentless push of roots and the earth, gravestones that were well on their way to be swallowed by the encroaching flora.
Sergeant Parram, a resolute medic who navigated the harrowing realities of the Great War, was intimately acquainted with the darkest facets of human nature—combat, pain, and mortality. When he returned to Saint Louis in 1919, the scars of battle were deeply etched, and these harrowing memories shadowed his remaining years until his death in 1942 at the age of 65. In seeking solace, he selected Greenwood Cemetery as his final resting place, a sanctuary where he hoped to find eternal peace. Tragically, he could not have predicted the ensuing neglect of the cemetery, a poignant irony for a man who, after enduring the turmoil of war, deserved tranquility in repose.
Over time, the mighty oak matured, its roots expanding and ultimately engulfing his tombstone, transforming what should be a visible testament to his life and service into a secret known only to a few—an “if you know, you know” situation. The relentless roots tore through his gravestone, which once stood as a proud symbol of his courage and sacrifice. Now it is reduced to a mere emblem of neglect and obscurity. A veteran who survived the deadliest of wars, only to have his legacy overshadowed by the indifferent forces of nature and neglect.
This reflection on Greenwood and the fate of some notable figures interred there sparked my curiosity about how other notable figures in Saint Louis have been memorialized.
My inquiry led me to Bellefontaine Cemetery. I took them up on their offer to explore their 314-acre cemetery, a Level 2 arboretum, their website declared. It is ten times the size of Greenwood. The setting was so serene that I would have believed you if you had told me it was a national public park. Indeed, launched as a rural cemetery in 1849, during a cholera outbreak, Bellefontaine was conceived as a place of tranquility and beauty, away from the bustle and noise of the city. My tour guide, Dan, met me at the cemetery’s front gates. He filled me in on a wedding taking place there in the following weeks. The idea that a cemetery could serve as a venue for such joyous occasions was a stark departure from my understanding of these spaces as solemn and reserved solely for mourning.
The relentless roots tore through his gravestone, which once stood as a proud symbol of his courage and sacrifice. Now it is reduced to a mere emblem of neglect and obscurity. A veteran who survived the deadliest of wars, only to have his legacy overshadowed by the indifferent forces of nature and neglect.
But to Bellefontaine, to honor those interred means to fill the trails with life, with the never-ending voice of a college student spewing questions at her tour guide on a weekday and the laughter of bridesmaids catching bouquets that weekend.
Dan takes pride as a steward of the cemetery. He steers his golf cart through the windy green trails, as confident with the terrain as he was with the knowledge he possessed. He speaks about the architectural beauty and arboreal richness. He continues on about the notable figures in U.S. history, and asks if I had heard of the business tycoons he listed—I know few of the names he listed, but at a point, my constant “no” becomes slightly embarrassing, and so I resort to smiling and nodding, a lie I deem necessary to preserve my dignity.
We drive and stop intermittently, mostly marveling at the mausoleums. This time, it was the mausoleums of Adolphus Busch and Lilly Anheuser. I know those names, for they are etched all around me, from the stadium I watched the Cardinals play (and lose spectacularly) this past year and the brewery complex I pass by on I-55 on my way back home back to Nashville, and WashU’s Law School, where I do not belong as an undergraduate, but whose library I enjoy occupying.
Lilly Anheuser’s mausoleum resembles a lavish marble shed, maintaining the opulence of a European Castle, only in a more miniature form. Bellefontaine Cemetery is dotted with such structures, from the more familiar Greek and Roman columns to the Egyptian-style sphinxes.
We climb back into Dan’s cart, and soon find ourselves standing before a new mausoleum. This structure distinguished itself as the most modern in the cemetery, a stark contrast to the first one built over seventy years ago. There are no discernible family names or identifying details on the mausoleum. Both the cemetery administration and the architect, Thomas Wall, are firmly committed to the project, preserving the secrecy surrounding this structure.
The mausoleum stands as a majestic sentinel beside the tranquil waters of Cascade Lake, its grandeur underscored by the meticulously manicured grounds of Bellefontaine, a cemetery distinguished not only for its historical significance but also as one of the world’s forty-four Level II arboretums. Crafted from the finest granite, this imposing structure, costing approximately $5 million, commands a hilltop position, offering a sweeping view that seems to oversee the serenity below.
• • •
At first, the mausoleum presents itself as a stark, monolithic entity. It is black-and-white and stands out from the rest of the mausoleums and the gentle landscape. Yet, a closer look reveals layers of nuanced artistry and symbolism. The strategic design of a cross, carved into the elevated granite wall and positioned to cast a shadow on the ground on December 20—the matriarch’s birthday—adds another layer of personal significance and artistry. It is not merely a symbol of faith, but a marker of remembrance, a beacon on a day of celebration and reflection.
The placement of the mausoleum atop the cemetery’s gentle slope is telling. It is not just a choice for a beautiful view, but a statement of elevation. I speculated that the person who commissioned this mausoleum once endured a lifetime of being looked down upon. Now, in death, the location of this mausoleum—deliberately placed to meet the gaze of visitors at eye level or higher—could be seen as a subtle but powerful reversal of their previous circumstances. This choice seems to defy past slights with a posture both dignified and assertive, standing as a silent testament to a life that seeks respect even in repose.
In a space where their ancestors might have been denied entry, they claim visibility and dignity, not through overt recognition, but through the eloquent language of architecture and placement.
A marble lion stands guard at the entrance, its demeanor reflecting a dignified reserve that resonates with the African continent’s majestic wildlife—a subtle nod, perhaps, to the heritage of those who will be placed within. This connection is further emphasized by the stained glass windows that adorn the mausoleum, where Christian imagery is reimagined with figures of dark skin, suggesting a blending of traditional faith with cultural identity.
This combination of symbolism raises the possibility that the family who built the mausoleum is African American. What if I am right: the ancestors of the family buried there might have likely found their final resting places in settings like Greenwood Cemetery, when segregation once dictated burial practices. The choice of Bellefontaine, with its lush landscapes and historical affluence, represents a profound shift—both a physical and a symbolic move from the margins to a place of prominence. Opting for anonymity in this context is particularly striking. It reflects a decision to define their legacy on their own terms, rather than having it defined for them. In a space where their ancestors might have been denied entry, they claim visibility and dignity, not through overt recognition, but through the eloquent language of architecture and placement.
• • •
The Dent family took a day’s journey from Ohio to Saint Louis in an attempt to pay respects to Willie and Sally Dent, as well as James Dent, the father of the family’s new matriarch, Lily. It had been over thirty years since Lily last stood by his grave, and upon seeing his name etched in stone, she wept in the arms of her brother.
As we walked the quiet lanes of Greenwood, Lily shared with me the story of her parents’ decision to rest here, a choice influenced by the recommendations of close family friends.
When I asked Lily if she had thought about her final resting place, she looked at me sternly. “My mind has already been made up. I’m getting cremated.”
Historically, burial was the predominant form of disposition for Black Americans, largely due to Christian traditions emphasizing bodily resurrection. Many Black American communities, influenced by Baptist and Methodist churches, viewed cremation with skepticism, seeing it as conflicting with these beliefs. Additionally, economic challenges and limited access to cremation facilities constrained their options.
Lily Dent and family, who traveled from Ohio, at the headstone of Lily’s father. (Photo by Keona Dordor)
However, societal shifts have led to changing attitudes in recent decades. Cremation rates have risen across the United States, including within Black American communities, as cultural norms shift and awareness of cremation increases. Urbanization, changing family structures, and the practical and financial benefits of cremation have contributed to this change.
The emotional impact Lily felt seeing her parent’s final resting place fall into disrepair was profound. For many descendants, these cemeteries represent not just burial sites, but a connection to their family’s legacy. The sight of neglect evoked feelings of sadness, frustration, and betrayal, as it symbolized a lack of respect for her family. This experience led Lily to consider cremation for her own end-of-life arrangements, hoping to avoid the pain of seeing her own final resting place suffer a similar fate.
“It saves my family trouble, and I know I will be taken care of,” Lily told me. Her declaration reflected a desire for control over her legacy, with the neglect of her parents’ cemetery fueling concerns about her own final resting place. Cremation offered a way to protect her memory from similar neglect, ensuring her remains are managed respectfully and providing reassurance for both herself and her family. For Black Americans, burial has been no easy thing in their history.
