Dig Deep
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
The funeral is done. The body is in the ground.
It's a strange culture we Chinese people have. It's perfectly "okay" to watch a man take his last breath on the hospital bed. "Okay" to watch the skin on his face turn translucent as you watch his chest struggle to rise and fall one last time. Nothing "wrong" with watching his heart rate painfully dwindle and finally flatline. It's still not "taboo" to look at his casket, to see if it's been positioned properly before they start heaving dirt over it. But it's completely forbidden to watch my grandfather's casket being carried in and out of the funeral wagon (whether it's from the house or to the burial spot) and lowered into the ground.
To be honest, these past three months has been extremely exhausting. These past three days escalated everything up ten-fold; crying was acceptable together with the sleepy wake of legitimate reasons to unleash everybody's personal vengeful demons. Every moral virtue frowned upon (almost all, but not quite) reared its ugly head only to be defended and amended with reasons of grief and consolation.
This morning, as we did the funeral march to a garbled, cacophonous tone of "Amazing Grace" and the relatives' grieving wails for the dearly departed (with my aunts setting the pace), my eyes were strangely dry.
I could feel the tears well up... even compelled to explode given the somber situation I was in. But just as quickly, with a small bite on my lip and a look to the ground on my left--the tears, the urge and the reason went away.
I am strong. I have to be. And I can't cry these tears anymore.
On a side note, I am pretty glad the funeral is over and done with. He is in peace and everyone can take their nosy, cotton-picking fingers out of the big family drama pot and get on with their lives.
Cold-hearted bitch? Well, all the high-strung bickering was more than what I wanted to hear. My mom's family tree carries with itself deep, dark, twisted secrets which I caught hushed whispers of during the big family lunch gathering today. Considering I don't speak Hokkien all too brilliantly (i.e. the relatives don't bother talking to me and quiz my parents instead while I flash my pearly whites periodically, it's both a curse and blessing really) I still end up asking my parents what on Mother Nature's green earth were they whispering about.
The interest of the day came in the form of an old, buried story from a long, long time ago, regarding "stolen" inheritance from my great-grandfather which got swindled away by another family member... just means that my recently departed grandfather didn't get squat but his brother (who isn't really his brother, but is my mom's grandfather's daughter's son... go figure O.o) manipulated the situation at that time and inherited the millions in land property from my great-grandfather. In essence, everything went to the grandson.
Sigh, the old cobwebs tangled with resentment that runs deep.
I suppose drama is a genetic trait that runs in the family, down to my generation; my genes are laced with a superior essence of drama compacted and refined through the generations.
Just. Great.
Finally, a little dark humor amidst the depressing, lonesome mood I've set: I found this in my cousin's place and since it would be excessively awkward to carry a camera to a funeral, my grainy phone cam caught:
New packing too.
I'll leave it open to interpretation.
The funeral is done. The body is in the ground.
It's a strange culture we Chinese people have. It's perfectly "okay" to watch a man take his last breath on the hospital bed. "Okay" to watch the skin on his face turn translucent as you watch his chest struggle to rise and fall one last time. Nothing "wrong" with watching his heart rate painfully dwindle and finally flatline. It's still not "taboo" to look at his casket, to see if it's been positioned properly before they start heaving dirt over it. But it's completely forbidden to watch my grandfather's casket being carried in and out of the funeral wagon (whether it's from the house or to the burial spot) and lowered into the ground.
To be honest, these past three months has been extremely exhausting. These past three days escalated everything up ten-fold; crying was acceptable together with the sleepy wake of legitimate reasons to unleash everybody's personal vengeful demons. Every moral virtue frowned upon (almost all, but not quite) reared its ugly head only to be defended and amended with reasons of grief and consolation.
This morning, as we did the funeral march to a garbled, cacophonous tone of "Amazing Grace" and the relatives' grieving wails for the dearly departed (with my aunts setting the pace), my eyes were strangely dry.
I could feel the tears well up... even compelled to explode given the somber situation I was in. But just as quickly, with a small bite on my lip and a look to the ground on my left--the tears, the urge and the reason went away.
I am strong. I have to be. And I can't cry these tears anymore.
On a side note, I am pretty glad the funeral is over and done with. He is in peace and everyone can take their nosy, cotton-picking fingers out of the big family drama pot and get on with their lives.
Cold-hearted bitch? Well, all the high-strung bickering was more than what I wanted to hear. My mom's family tree carries with itself deep, dark, twisted secrets which I caught hushed whispers of during the big family lunch gathering today. Considering I don't speak Hokkien all too brilliantly (i.e. the relatives don't bother talking to me and quiz my parents instead while I flash my pearly whites periodically, it's both a curse and blessing really) I still end up asking my parents what on Mother Nature's green earth were they whispering about.
The interest of the day came in the form of an old, buried story from a long, long time ago, regarding "stolen" inheritance from my great-grandfather which got swindled away by another family member... just means that my recently departed grandfather didn't get squat but his brother (who isn't really his brother, but is my mom's grandfather's daughter's son... go figure O.o) manipulated the situation at that time and inherited the millions in land property from my great-grandfather. In essence, everything went to the grandson.
Sigh, the old cobwebs tangled with resentment that runs deep.
I suppose drama is a genetic trait that runs in the family, down to my generation; my genes are laced with a superior essence of drama compacted and refined through the generations.
Just. Great.
Finally, a little dark humor amidst the depressing, lonesome mood I've set: I found this in my cousin's place and since it would be excessively awkward to carry a camera to a funeral, my grainy phone cam caught:
New packing too.
I'll leave it open to interpretation.
Labels: family
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timeless bitchings
nekomatta is...
Sean Sean Tan;
sarcastic wordsmith, dirty in oh-so-many ways, fun-loving IE-hating CSS worshiping markup "engineer", anime-styled arm flailing expressive communicator, proudly self-initiated member of the cult of milk and caffeine, snotty pink crayon lover, tree hugging hippy organic designer, pole dancer wannabe, swing-a-ling lindy hopper, rabid arcane mage/bitchin' disc priest/annoying resto druid--sometimes spazzy, often giggly, always loud.
20% sugar, 80% kink.
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