These are the times that try men's souls, or at least, used to...
I've finally posted! Against my right-shoulder-angel's advice, I went ahead and stayed up late to write you a little something. It's not actually a story, this time, but more of a reflection. I'm sorry if it goes in circles or confuses you or has grammatical errors; it's a very hazy subject in my mind and I wrote things in short bursts of thought. Well, enjoy.
respectless
A family friend died recently, a mother of three young children. Although I didn't know her very well, I went to the funeral with my mother, who was best friends with her.
I don't like funerals. I mean, I know nobody enjoys them, but most people want them out of respect for the deceased. And sure, that sounds great on paper. That they deserve a gathering in celebration of their life. But funerals aren't about that anymore. They've disintegrated into a meaningless gathering of people who had seen them once, learned their name once, maybe even recognized their face once. Like me.
I stood in the entrance hall of that church, packed with too many other people who couldn't find seats. Despite the fact I had to stand for an hour and a half, the ceremony was beautiful. Friends and relatives recounted on myriads of happy times with her, trying to get through their pieces of paper without crying. I imagined a younger, healthier Sarah, enjoying life in Sydney, where she used to live and where her chipper Australian accent came from. I imagined her going to the movies with these people, or going to dinner or to a party. I imagined her as a child, growing up with such kind people. I felt something in the corner of my eye.
But there was a man near me whose head was drooping. It kept looking down, and then it would bounce back up as he'd realize he was on the verge of sleepdom. What was he here for if he didn't care?
But there was a man near me who needed to consult his watch every 15-20 minutes. He obviously didn't have to be somewhere, but, even worse, he just didn't want to be there. Get the fuck out.
But there was a man near me who kept staring at me with this look that seemed to ask what I was doing there, seemingly without any parent. How was I supposed to answer his eyes? I didn't belong there just as much as the sleepless and timeless men. I was only there because I had been brought along by my parents. Of course I couldn't've objected to going; how could I possibly explain a refusal to attend a funeral? They're the kind that see a funeral as a personal right of the deceased. You don't question, you just attend.
So here I was, out in the hallway of apathy, standing for an hour and a half. My legs began to hurt after a while, but I forced myself to stand. Even when everyone else was sitting, I only leaned against the wall. It just didn't seem right to sit.
I don't know. I really don't. Who belongs at a funeral? I thought it was just those who knew the person and wanted to pay "their respects"--whatever that means. But they have to bring their families along too, don't they? I don't know what the solution is. I do know that funerals should really only be for those who care. And that that may not just be those who knew the person really well, but might include others, like me. But maybe those emotionally closest to the deceased should be physically closest in the ceremony, and less-caring people can stand farther back, like out in that hallway.
But honestly, if you just don't give a damn at all, you don't belong there.