(no subject)
There are those terrific days where all I can remember is this sense of euphoria. I remember my stomach aching from laughing so hard. I remember going to sleep that night feeling like everything would be okay from now on. I just remember feeling good. Then, there are those less than terrific days, the days I don't want to remember. It's those days that seem to hold the most significance. It's those days that allow me to recollect every detail down to the ant crawling along the ridge of a bench.
When I attended my grandmother's funeral, I remember feeling overwhelmingly helpless. I can honestly say feeling helpless is personally the worst feeling ever.
Funerals are bittersweet. In my grandmother's case, she was suffering severely. We all knew that when she checked in to Kindred Hospital, she'd be there until she passed. By the end, she didn't recognize anyone. These strangers were visiting her, bringing her flowers, sending her love, but she couldn't match name and face. So, it was good that she wasn't suffering anymore.
When my brother and I arrived at the building where the service was held, a few of my cousins were standing around in front. We exchanged pleasantries, and it was then I realized how much we'd grown. Especially because we were all in semi-formal black attire, we all looked older. We all felt older. These are cousins that I've seen almost every weekend since I was born. They're more or less siblings to me. And although it is probably one of the saddest days we will face together, we're still able to make a joke about how my brother didn't have time to iron his shirt before he came, and how my other cousin's tie looked too stylish and festive and that he should have sharpied out the white polka dots or put in a few extra bucks for a solid black tie.
When you see this same closely-knit group of relatives every month, you forget about the relatives that don't live in the area. There are cousins I know like the back of my hand, and then cousins my age whose names I can't remember. These cousins are equally related in blood, but the lucky hand of divorce has forced them to never experience the love of the Le family. I see aunts I don't remember. Aunts who played with me for two or three years when I was a child and for the life of me, I can't remember them. But they remember me. People start to arrive. There were three ways I acknowledged everyone I encountered. The people I was familiar with - I simply smiled and said hi. The older generations that obviously don't know me as I don't know them - respectful bows. The relatives that know me that I don't remember - an awkward "Uhh, yeah, I think I remember you from ten years ago...you had a shirt on, right? And some pants..."
When it came time to sit down, my brother and closest cousins and I sat down together on one pew. Eight of us squeezed together looking well-dressed, sad and slightly confused. Although there were several empty pews, more than enough for us to sit comfortably separated, we chose to sit with each other. It just felt right. It's a buddhist tradition that the immediate family members (spouse and children) to wear a white band around your head. It's basically a white piece of cloth you tie around your head. The grandchildren and in-laws wore white bands, too, but instead of being tied in the back, they were simply wrapped around our heads.
Not realizing how many people we had in the family, we ran out of white cloth and the moms had to start ripping the pieces of cloth in half to have enough for everyone. The situation was a bit humorous and it was obvious no one really knew what they were doing or the rules for whose cloth was wrapped and whose was tied.
It was when the service finally began that I noticed my aunts and uncles scattered around the room. It was then that I realized that this woman we would bury was their mom. My cousins, my brother and myself, sure we were sad. Everyone was sad. But the adults. My dad, my uncles and aunts, they were more than just sad. They looked tired. They looked empty.
Very beautiful eulogies were given. My grandparents' sponsor, this very sweet Swedish couple, was first to speak. I loved what he had said and I wish more people had appreciated his words, but the majority of the attendees were vietnamese and only praised the monk's words. The Swedish man talked about how he first met my grandparents, about sponsoring them and how far they'd gone. He talked about how beautiful a person my grandmother was and asked us not be sad about her death, but rather celebrate her life.
There was one part where everyone wearing a head band was supposed to stand up and come to the front and pray. It was one of those moments where no one wanted to really look at each other because no one likes to look anyone in the eye when they're crying. I noticed my grandpa at the side of the open casket. He was rearranging the flowers around my grandmother. It was then that he looked helpless. He kept moving everything around, trying to make her as comfortable as possible until my aunt finally pulled him away.
My grandpa will always be Superman. Probably the most fit person in the family at the age of 96 (give or take), fluent in Vietnamese and English (and can converse in a couple of other languages), and containing one of the largest vocabularies I know, my grandpa has always been just a super terrific person. A humanitarian and very involved, he isn't one of those immigrants that comes to America and chooses to never learn English. Seeing him and all the adults look so lost and helpless...it was weird. Suddenly, the kids were the adults.
After the service, we walked to the burial ground. There were several giant wreaths of flowers from the service that they brought to the grass for us to pick at later because a part of the ritual includes spreading the flowers over the coffin. I remember every time my brother and I went to visit my grandmother at the hospital, my brother chose the bouquet of flowers to bring very carefully. If we couldn't find the perfect bouquet, we'd keep looking. It wasn't just grab and go for him. When it was time for us to grab flowers to throw onto the coffin, we were told to only take white and yellow flowers. Everyone had a few flowers...either all the same or just random pretty flowers. My brother, however, put together a beautiful bouquet. It outdid all of ours together. He carefully went around and picked the best of the best from each wreath. That bouquet seemed to represent everything. It was so simple. It was merely an arrangement of flowers, yet it looked so elegant, so professional and still so personal. Like every ounce of love he had for her was put into that bouquet.
After the burial, the immedate family was forced back to the building to clean up the remaining wreaths and the fruit offerings, etc. After we had packed up, we said our goodbyes and the kids got in their separate cars to go to Mae's to eat. As I was walking to my brother's car, I saw a boy sitting by himself on the curb at the side of the building. Although I say boy, he was probably my age or older. He was holding a skateboard and a teddy bear and crying so hard. He took looked so helpless. I didn't know him, but all I wanted to do was sit down next to him, take him in my arms and hold him and tell him everything would be okay. Even though everything won't always be okay and we all know that, it's something you want to hear. As we began to drive off, the kid got up; still crying, he walked off into the distance.
It's one of those days you always remember. Yes, the day was sad. Heartbreaking? Not necessarily. I mean, not to desensitize death, but it happens. It hurts, sometimes for a very long time, but you move on. But now, whenever I feel helpless, I think about that day. There's nothing I hate more than feeling helpless. Whether it be because I can't help someone else or I can't help myself. I'm a natural care-giver. But I can't always save the world. As much as I want to, there are a lot of things I can't do. Some situations I can't change. It's those kind of situations that make me vulnerable. I'm covered in kryptonite. Sorry, can't help you now.
P.S. You see that jade bracelet? That's what gave me the scar on my right wrist.
When I attended my grandmother's funeral, I remember feeling overwhelmingly helpless. I can honestly say feeling helpless is personally the worst feeling ever.
Funerals are bittersweet. In my grandmother's case, she was suffering severely. We all knew that when she checked in to Kindred Hospital, she'd be there until she passed. By the end, she didn't recognize anyone. These strangers were visiting her, bringing her flowers, sending her love, but she couldn't match name and face. So, it was good that she wasn't suffering anymore.
When my brother and I arrived at the building where the service was held, a few of my cousins were standing around in front. We exchanged pleasantries, and it was then I realized how much we'd grown. Especially because we were all in semi-formal black attire, we all looked older. We all felt older. These are cousins that I've seen almost every weekend since I was born. They're more or less siblings to me. And although it is probably one of the saddest days we will face together, we're still able to make a joke about how my brother didn't have time to iron his shirt before he came, and how my other cousin's tie looked too stylish and festive and that he should have sharpied out the white polka dots or put in a few extra bucks for a solid black tie.
When you see this same closely-knit group of relatives every month, you forget about the relatives that don't live in the area. There are cousins I know like the back of my hand, and then cousins my age whose names I can't remember. These cousins are equally related in blood, but the lucky hand of divorce has forced them to never experience the love of the Le family. I see aunts I don't remember. Aunts who played with me for two or three years when I was a child and for the life of me, I can't remember them. But they remember me. People start to arrive. There were three ways I acknowledged everyone I encountered. The people I was familiar with - I simply smiled and said hi. The older generations that obviously don't know me as I don't know them - respectful bows. The relatives that know me that I don't remember - an awkward "Uhh, yeah, I think I remember you from ten years ago...you had a shirt on, right? And some pants..."
When it came time to sit down, my brother and closest cousins and I sat down together on one pew. Eight of us squeezed together looking well-dressed, sad and slightly confused. Although there were several empty pews, more than enough for us to sit comfortably separated, we chose to sit with each other. It just felt right. It's a buddhist tradition that the immediate family members (spouse and children) to wear a white band around your head. It's basically a white piece of cloth you tie around your head. The grandchildren and in-laws wore white bands, too, but instead of being tied in the back, they were simply wrapped around our heads.
Not realizing how many people we had in the family, we ran out of white cloth and the moms had to start ripping the pieces of cloth in half to have enough for everyone. The situation was a bit humorous and it was obvious no one really knew what they were doing or the rules for whose cloth was wrapped and whose was tied.
It was when the service finally began that I noticed my aunts and uncles scattered around the room. It was then that I realized that this woman we would bury was their mom. My cousins, my brother and myself, sure we were sad. Everyone was sad. But the adults. My dad, my uncles and aunts, they were more than just sad. They looked tired. They looked empty.
Very beautiful eulogies were given. My grandparents' sponsor, this very sweet Swedish couple, was first to speak. I loved what he had said and I wish more people had appreciated his words, but the majority of the attendees were vietnamese and only praised the monk's words. The Swedish man talked about how he first met my grandparents, about sponsoring them and how far they'd gone. He talked about how beautiful a person my grandmother was and asked us not be sad about her death, but rather celebrate her life.
There was one part where everyone wearing a head band was supposed to stand up and come to the front and pray. It was one of those moments where no one wanted to really look at each other because no one likes to look anyone in the eye when they're crying. I noticed my grandpa at the side of the open casket. He was rearranging the flowers around my grandmother. It was then that he looked helpless. He kept moving everything around, trying to make her as comfortable as possible until my aunt finally pulled him away.
My grandpa will always be Superman. Probably the most fit person in the family at the age of 96 (give or take), fluent in Vietnamese and English (and can converse in a couple of other languages), and containing one of the largest vocabularies I know, my grandpa has always been just a super terrific person. A humanitarian and very involved, he isn't one of those immigrants that comes to America and chooses to never learn English. Seeing him and all the adults look so lost and helpless...it was weird. Suddenly, the kids were the adults.
After the service, we walked to the burial ground. There were several giant wreaths of flowers from the service that they brought to the grass for us to pick at later because a part of the ritual includes spreading the flowers over the coffin. I remember every time my brother and I went to visit my grandmother at the hospital, my brother chose the bouquet of flowers to bring very carefully. If we couldn't find the perfect bouquet, we'd keep looking. It wasn't just grab and go for him. When it was time for us to grab flowers to throw onto the coffin, we were told to only take white and yellow flowers. Everyone had a few flowers...either all the same or just random pretty flowers. My brother, however, put together a beautiful bouquet. It outdid all of ours together. He carefully went around and picked the best of the best from each wreath. That bouquet seemed to represent everything. It was so simple. It was merely an arrangement of flowers, yet it looked so elegant, so professional and still so personal. Like every ounce of love he had for her was put into that bouquet.
After the burial, the immedate family was forced back to the building to clean up the remaining wreaths and the fruit offerings, etc. After we had packed up, we said our goodbyes and the kids got in their separate cars to go to Mae's to eat. As I was walking to my brother's car, I saw a boy sitting by himself on the curb at the side of the building. Although I say boy, he was probably my age or older. He was holding a skateboard and a teddy bear and crying so hard. He took looked so helpless. I didn't know him, but all I wanted to do was sit down next to him, take him in my arms and hold him and tell him everything would be okay. Even though everything won't always be okay and we all know that, it's something you want to hear. As we began to drive off, the kid got up; still crying, he walked off into the distance.
It's one of those days you always remember. Yes, the day was sad. Heartbreaking? Not necessarily. I mean, not to desensitize death, but it happens. It hurts, sometimes for a very long time, but you move on. But now, whenever I feel helpless, I think about that day. There's nothing I hate more than feeling helpless. Whether it be because I can't help someone else or I can't help myself. I'm a natural care-giver. But I can't always save the world. As much as I want to, there are a lot of things I can't do. Some situations I can't change. It's those kind of situations that make me vulnerable. I'm covered in kryptonite. Sorry, can't help you now.
P.S. You see that jade bracelet? That's what gave me the scar on my right wrist.