June 29, 2010
Methods of mourning
Dear clusterflock,
Do people mourn publicly anymore? What happened to the days of wearing black armbands and ties after a loved one’s death?
When I was in college, a girl I knew shaved her head after her best friend died. Although that’s an extreme example, there’s something very moving about an individual incorporating visual symbols of mourning into their public life. It commands a pause from people who notice the symbol; almost a moment of silence for that person who has been lost. I respect people’s right to mourn privately, but I think we should bring some of these traditions back and wear our feelings on our sleeves again.
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Not so much, at least in normal everyday people. Again, we’ve tried to sweep death under the carpet and have removed tangible reminders of loss and pain from our lives when someone dies.
The only exception seems to be sports teams, who now almost always have a number/patch/initials of the deceased, be it a team owner, broadcaster, bat boy or teammate. As you can probably tell, I think these things have become all too common in MLB/NFL/NHL/NBA/NCAA teams to the point that they don’t really feel special anymore. They just seem like either a cheap motivational ploy or a craven marketing attempt. They certainly don’t seem like fitting and respectful ways to remember the deceased.
The only other thing that comes to mind is the makeshift memorials of flowers, stuffed bears, and other mementos that happy spontaneously when someone either famous or popular dies. Also, I suppose, when someone dies tragically in car crash, especially at the crash site. I don’t really care for these memorials. They seem too transient and ephemeral. If you want to memorialize someone, do it in way that won’t be gone or rotted away by season’s end. They all seem so, I dunno, trendy.
Anyway, I agree with you, but I have no idea how to get society to embrace mourning in the way you describe.
er… that should be “happen” for “happy”. I’m apparently rather distracted tonight.
I’ve never lost anyone who wasn’t already so weak and aged that death seemed like a fair escape. I miss my grandmother every day, I do. But is that mourning? I’m not so sure.
Were I to suddenly no longer have my best friend or (someday) lover, I know that I would be hard-pressed to “just get over it” without a statement to express my grief. I’ve shaved my head before for less monumental reasons.
There is something about American culture that suggests that we aren’t supposed to mourn for very long. William Bridges writes extensively about this in several of his books, especially in Transitions: Making Sense of Life’s Changes. The notion is that we are expected to get “over” whatever has happened as quickly as possible. If you get divorced, you’d better start dating right away. If you lose someone you care about, you should avoid being in public all together until you’ve got your shit together – and people will avoid you when they know (or presume) that you are mourning.
Bridges suggests that we should ceremonially recognize transition. Not necessarily in public, but in some substantive way that is meaningful for those impacted.
Personally, I like the idea of a black armband or tie.
I lost my father when I was 20 and in some ways I’m not sure I ever experienced the mourning process in a way that would’ve been appropriately therapeutic. This is partly because, at least in my own cultural context (which was overwhelmingly evangelical with a small element of catholicism), everyone seemed to feel that they should be involved in my mourning process. This came in the form of dozens of religious self-help books and 5-step programs about how to mourn “properly” as well as the hundreds of incredibly cutting remarks about how my father was in a much better place than his family that was still living. (I even had one family member, in all seriousness, tell me that god told her that he had given my Dad a choice between being returned to life and his family or heaven, and he chose the latter, which was somehow the least selfish option).
I think I would’ve felt a little better if I could have worn my emotions on my sleeve (maybe even literally), but because of these people and their crushing good intentions, I opted instead to assume a stance of recovery more quickly than was probably natural.
Oh, and Kelsey. Grace just shaved her head, because I think she was mourning the giant divot she accidentally took out of her hair when she tried cutting it herself the other day.
Mourning is still very visible and prolonged in Crete and I would suspect the rest of Greece.
I remember when my friends dad died. We were in high school and had been growing apart for several years. After the funeral we went back to his house and acted like we were 10 again. We shot basketball on the court his dad had built and played video games while the adults clasped hands and said nothing.
I remember feeling incredibly sad in spite of the distractions. That’s about as close as I’ve been to the need for mourning, luckily.
Forced “recovery” is a terrible idea. I’m sorry you had to go through that, Josh– it sounds awful.
I very much like black armbands. I think it’s a subtle way of making the griever off limits– a sign that they should be given special consideration and space for as long as they choose to wear the armband.
For months after my little brother died I remember wanting to carry around just this sort of sign that I was grieving. It was perpetually amazing to me that when I went out in public, strangers would have no idea that I had suffered a loss. I was being treated as a normal person by grocery clerks, telemarketers, panhandlers. This was almost obscene to me. The pain I was in seemed to me to be warping the walls of my house. It was just amazing to me that it was possible for someone not to know.
I do wonder how it would have gone though, after a while of wearing the sign. It would have saved me a few painful situations, but I think I would have felt very isolated after a while. People don’t generally have much practice with grief and lots of them act like complete idiots when they encounter it. Josh, your example would be a case in point. That sounds pretty terrible all around. When faced with those kind of folk, I might rather lie low and just get out of there as soon as possible.
Speaking, as Phil did, of mourning in Crete and Greece generally, there is a wonderful chapter titled “Lamentation” in Patrick Leigh Fermor’s Mani: Travels in the Southern Pelopponese.
And Pam, I completely identify with your experience as well. There is, in these situations, the overwhelming sense that you want people to share in the pain with you, to “drink of the same cup,” if you will, but on your terms.
I believe it’s Orthodox Jews who have a mourning ritual where friends and family gather with those hurting and simply sit, not injecting their thoughts or pointing out some potential net benefit from the loss, but waiting instead for the hurting parties to speak. And only then, do they speak as well.
I come from a small town in a small area where people I do not know and may not have seen me for years would address me by name (or more frequently as “Alma’s son”) and have a chat in the grocery store. This is bewildering enough when you haven’t lost someone recently. Back home, you need no sign or symbol that you are mourning someone. Everybody already knows.
I wonder if my age when I lost my father (15) or when I left the area (18) has some influence on my perception of community omniscience.
My grandfather-in-law passed away last night.
He lived in a small house on Long Island and every Easter he’d hide eggs all over the house and there’d be a hunt. These were hollowed-out egg shells with pinholes on the top and bottom, painted in pastels. And, man, he hid them everywhere. Most were taped under kitchen chairs. You’d pop off the front of the sheet-metal radiator and there’d be four eggs in there. People would raid the pantry, dump out all the flour and coffee and sugar and find eggs buried. One time he cut the top off a full jug of cranberry juice, sank a weighted egg into it, and melted the top back on so the cap was still sealed. This other time an aunt slid a framed picture to one side to find that a square hole had been cut in the sheet-rock wall and quickly replaced. She punched a hole in the wall there and, sure enough, found an egg. Eggs in light bulbs. Eggs in toilet tanks. And every time we found a tricky one he’d say, “You louse!” with a big smile on his face. He was a hell of a guy.
Think maybe I’ll have eggs for dinner.
This makes me want to begin hiding eggs. Everywhere. All the time.
Thank you for this, Phil. What a guy.
I like this story, Phil.
I think the best part of the funeral/mourning process is the opportunity to tell these types of stories and give glimpses of the memories you love.
That is a great story, Phil, and I’m sorry for your loss.
Josh, I lost my dad when I was 24, and I too was in an evangelical environment. Fortunately I didn’t feel any great pressure to “get over it” (though maybe I was just too oblivious to notice it), but the male taboo on grieving openly was always there.
I lost a dear friend very suddenly and unexpectedly in late 2006 and I still think about her nearly every day.
[...] Phil Wells: He lived in a small house on Long Island and every Easter he’d hide eggs all over the house and there’d be a hunt. These were hollowed-out egg shells with pinholes on the top and bottom, painted in pastels. And, man, he hid them everywhere. Most were taped under kitchen chairs. You’d pop off the front of the sheet-metal radiator and there’d be four eggs in there. People would raid the pantry, dump out all the flour and coffee and sugar and find eggs buried. One time he cut the top off a full jug of cranberry juice, sank a weighted egg into it, and melted the top back on so the cap was still sealed. This other time an aunt slid a framed picture to one side to find that a square hole had been cut in the sheet-rock wall and quickly replaced. She punched a hole in the wall there and, sure enough, found an egg. Eggs in light bulbs. Eggs in toilet tanks. And every time we found a tricky one he’d say, “You louse!” with a big smile on his face. He was a hell of a guy. [...]
My father passed away in 1996 from AIDS. We were very close and his death was very difficult for me. But the hardest part was facing the well-meaning people who didn’t know what to say when they were trying to comfort me. A sad smile, an ineffectual “Geez, I’m sorry.” Many times, I ended up comforting them, letting them know it was OK that they didn’t know what to say.
I decided then and there that I wouldn’t be like that. So now when ever I hear a friend or colleague has lost a loved one, I ask them one question: What was their cocktail? Sometimes I get a bemused look or an eyebrow raise. And I explain my theory that heaven is one big celestial bar where you never have to pay your tab. Anf that my father always used to say when you come to a new bar, it’s always nice to have a cocktail waiting for you. So if they told me what their loved one drank, I would make sure Dad had it waiting for them.
The great thing about this method is that it gets people thinking about their loved ones not from a sense or loss, but from a rembrance of good times. Invariably, there’s an anecdote that goes along with the cocktail request. And these anecdotes are usually fun stories – anecdotes about cocktails almost always are – and that prompts smiles and more stories. Suddenly, we’re not crying or feeling sad but laughing and saying “I remember this time when . . .” I find that’s the best medicine for grief.
Kate, what was your dad’s cocktail?
My Dad drank Smirnoff on the rocks with a twist, thanks for asking.
He also made sure the bartender never threw out the ice when making a new drink. “That’s good ice!” he’d say.
If anybody writes a book about your dad be sure it’s titled, “That’s good ice!”
Noted – will do.
He was certainly a character, my Dad. He was married to my Mom, had four kids, then realized he was gay. He lived in NYC with John, whom I call my other Dad, for over 15 years. He tried to convince us he was from another planet when we were young and, to try to further convince us, would pretend to contact the Mother Ship when we were in the subway. I think he’s the only person who thought the subway provided a better connection. He also thought mayonaise was poison, caused cancer. So did garlic, pickles and cheese. But he loved pizza. When that contradiction was pointed out to him he replied, with a completely straight face, “The antidote is in the crust.”
Perhaps a book should be written.
The antidote is in the crust.
Kate, a beautiful remembrance. Thank you.
A book should be written.
Lauren, thank you for your question. All y’all’s comments are a treasure.
Sheila: I always thought those were important words to remember.
Rick: Thank you – it is strange to me that my father’s death still affects me so much so many years later. But I tried to make the difficulty of the time have a positive effect on the future. (Damn. Did I confuse my affects and effects again?)
Michael: Thanks for asking.
[...] Pam: For months after my little brother died I remember wanting to carry around just this sort of sign that I was grieving. It was perpetually amazing to me that when I went out in public, strangers would have no idea that I had suffered a loss. I was being treated as a normal person by grocery clerks, telemarketers, panhandlers. This was almost obscene to me. The pain I was in seemed to me to be warping the walls of my house. It was just amazing to me that it was possible for someone not to know. posted by Deron Bauman in family, from the comments, memory, relationships | * | 5 comments [...]