Atlanta
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Miss Sylvia is dead.
Metropolitan, of course, is coded with raced, classed, and cultural meaning.
Sounds expensive, Miles responds, noting the high demand for Chinese nannys in the city.
Sylvia wasnt expensive, he adds.
Bronwyns low regard for Afro-Caribbean people and culture thus reverberates throughout the episode.
On the day of Sylvias funeral, her hellishness reaches new heights.
You know mi heart, Bash responds when she clocks him.
When Bash and his parents finally enter the church, they make him hold their hands and stay close.
Miles lifts him to see Sylvia in her casket and walks him back to sit in the pews.
Any time is Trini time, the pastor declares to the funeral attendees as the service begins.
Who do you think she sacrificed to take care of those children?
Princess asks as she stands before the pulpit.
Where was she when we needed her?
she asks aloud before becoming overcome with emotion and nearly pushing her mothers casket over.
I needed you, mummy, Princess whimpers.
In a brief moment, the fractured nature of Sylvias life is brought to bear by her own child.
This is the toll of domestic laborers with domestic lives of their own.
Look, youre scaring the white people?
Devon shouts to get the family and friends to emote with their audience (white guests) in mind.
Its okay, we just sad.
This is how we sad, Devon tells Bash as if their mourning and raw emotion needed translating.
On the car ride home, Bronwyn is unnerved to hear Miles singing Trini 2 De Bone to himself.
His mother, however, remains restless.
Did we do the right thing?
Bronwyn asks Miles, referring to their decision to bring Bash to the funeral.
He tells her not to worry; Bash can handle the grief.
What Miles misses, however, is the source of his missuss concerns.
A series of knocks interrupt their slumber.
The package is back.
Throughout this season ofAtlanta, the show has grappled with the ghosts of the past at every turn.
Her labor outlives here in the city she called home, far away from her first home.
If I see a city, I see its living ghostliness the stray looks, the dying hands.
I see its needs and its discomforts locked in apartments.
