First Funeral

I went to my first funeral that I could/would remember this past Saturday. If I think about it, I should find myself fortunate enough to be able to say that.

Three of my four grandparents passed away before I was born. When my grandfather passed away, I was discouraged from partaking in the funeral rituals because in general we don’t like children “mixed up” in these events, and possibly also because my birth dates was in conflict with some auspicious numbers.

The funeral was for someone that technically is not related to me, if your view of family is based on the Western, nuclear family. But to me, in my Chinese view of the world, the six degree of separation is close enough that I felt obliged to attend, especially since the funeral was in a town less than an hour away. L was only four years older than I am.

It’s not that we were particularly close. I have only saw her twice, even though I do see her families during the holidays when I visit my in-laws.  What compelled me, what gave me this (perhaps misguided) sense of urgency to be there, was the thought of her father having to be there, at his daughter’s funeral. That’s one of the worst things that I could think of to happen to anybody. For what it’s worth, I felt I needed to be there for the elders.

Because I have never been to a funeral in the U.S., I was surprised by how much laughter there was. And it didn’t seem wrong to laugh at all. With L lying there, and her friends talking about how passionate she was, and how “Yeah, try and get in a word when she was on a roll” she could be, it felt simply wonderful to laugh, to remember the happiness she has brought them.

Because of my recent loss, I probably over-projected a bit. I ended up crying too much, disproportionate one might think to my relationship to L. She has lived in Chicago by herself away from her families all her adult life. So I was crying for her, for her father, for her families, for myself, and for my aunt.

When I hugged her father who was still obviously in shock, he felt so fragile. I was afraid that if I hugged him too tight I might break him. All I did was cry.

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The Dash

L’s best friend read a poem to her, and for us,

The Dash by Linda Ellis

I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning to the end.

He noted that first came the date of her birth
And spoke of the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own,
The cars, the house, the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard;
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left
That can still be rearranged.

If we could just slow down enough
To consider what’s true and real
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we’ve never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect
And more often wear a smile,
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.

So when your eulogy is being read
With your life’s actions to rehash
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?

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Culture Shock

Although I was worried that my inability to stop crying might have caused more crying than there would have been, in the end, I am happy that I went. How could I have stayed away? In the Chinese sense, my in-law’s in-laws ARE my families. Others may not understand this, but I’d have felt guilty if I didn’t even make the effort.

Lately the stark difference between what Chinese and “The Polite White Society” (for a lack of a better descriptive term) consider to be family, and how far one would go for families, is getting on my nerves. This has been so far the biggest chasm between Chinese culture and “White” culture I have experienced. In comparison, all the other differences are merely skin deep. So after being in this country for 17 years, I sense I am going through my first wave of culture shock.

What can I say? I have always been a late bloomer.

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Foreign

I am flying home for the funeral of my aunt. I am anxious because it is important to me that I make it this time. My final chance to say goodbye, in my mind.

I know funerals are elaborate affairs back home. The older generation loves telling us: “There are three important occasions in life that need to be properly commemorated: Birth. Marriage. Death.”

A proper funeral and the series of ceremonies leading to the funeral affect not only the deceased’s ability to pass over to the other side in peace but also the chances of the descendants to prosper. Nobody wants to run the risk of committing any error. In order to remind myself what funerals are like in Taiwan, I googled it. Yup, I am a loser. I googled about my “own” culture on google. Leave me alone.

ELABORATE is probably a euphemism. I’ll simply put it this way.

Discussions with my parents about my aunt’s funeral and all the rituals and ceremonies and rules and restrictions and the right dates and times and the prayers and the head pieces and the special dresses and the “who is supposed to stand where and when” and the expectations for ostentatious mourning and the kneeling and the crawling and the “because you are only a daughter and not a daughter-in-law you don’t need to wear 100% black” rules and the reassurance “People will not mind because you have been away for so long” in case I do something wrong, I realized, I am foreign.

Here and there.