In black culture, we do three rituals differently from other ethnic groups: get married, worship and bury our loved ones.

And in those three, we express ourselves more vociferously than in just about any other aspect of our lives. When we get married, we party hard. When we go to church, we see middle-aged women getting the "holy ghost" and when we hold a funeral, there's always a chorus of wailing.

Then there are those times we mourn the passing of someone we all know, even if that person didn't know each of us personally -- that "family member," in the larger sense, who found a way to bring something special into our lives, who connects us all. We become sad and we give condolences, then we slowly heal.

Sometimes, though, we are forced to bury such people more than once in a short period of time. And that has been a theme of the past few weeks in black pop culture. So far this Black History Month, we seem to have buried so many of our famous that it has become difficult to focus on the larger scope of black history.

So far we have mourned the passing of powerful R&B songstress Etta James, Soul Train impresario Don Cornelius, gospel prodigy David Peaston, opera pioneer Camilla Williams and, most recently and tragically, America's most beloved diva, Whitney Houston.

In the cases of James and Williams, we know that they lived full lives, and it becomes easier to let them go with a tear and a flower. Cornelius lived an equally full life, but the apparent suicide of a man who brought so much joy to us every Saturday is difficult to grasp. Peaston's death at 54, still young, serves as a reminder that maintaining our health is tantamount.

But losing Houston was the most unexpected of all. If it did not shock all of us, it certainly saddened us to know that her voice is now forever silenced.