The Dead Joke, Too or How Funeral Director Families Spend Thanksgiving

We stood at the top of the "Italian District" in Mount Calvary Cemetery, surrounded by D'somethings and Name-O's as far as the eye could see. The cool, November breeze whipped the ruffles on my skirt and made the flowered arrangements surrounding us bend and sway. I stood just off to the side of the small clan, feeling as if I'm intruding on something sacred. I had never had the joy of meeting Ronald A. Kent in his time on Earth and I wasn't exactly sure if I belonged in front of his grave, the soil not quite settled, the grass still patchy and new.

"Do you want me to stay in the car?" My voice sounds like a stranger, smaller than I've ever heard it.

"No, of course not," Tyler takes my hand in his and gives it a big squeeze. "You're going to be family."

And with that, he pulls me closer, completing the half-circle. We are truly an eclectic bunch.

Walter, Tyler's father, bookends the group, toeing the small memory stone bearing his father's name. His voice is gruff as he complains about how far it's sunken in and the sun bounces off of his tanned face. He is so much like a bear, lumbering more than walking as he shifts his weight from one broad shoulder to the next.

Beside him is Aunt Concetta, a sweet woman with an air of desperation in her laughter. Her eyes are always wide, as if constantly expecting some grand surprise, a trait that is somewhat unsettling in a cemetery.

Standing directly in front of her husband's plot was the family matriarch, Miss Grace. She was a bird-like woman, thin and frail, leaning heavily on her walker. She listens half-heartedly as her son explains the little intricacies of the burial process, like how Ron was buried two feet lower do to a large stone at the head of the grave. These are things she's heard a million times before, and I have a feeling that the information is just for me.

Beside me to my left stood Aunt Linda, the youngest and the kookiest of the group. Her first reaction to standing beside her father's grave is to whip out her iPhone and turn on the ghost radar app, which supposedly takes electromagnetic fields and "translates" them, just like those machines on Ghost Hunters and whatnot.

"I told Daddy we'd be here," she said simply, giving her mother an affectionate pat on the back.

And then there was Tyler and I, his leather jacket draped unnecessarily around my shoulders (chivalry never died with him). He stood tall, head held high, simply allowing himself to think. I took that moment to realize just how similar he was to his father, from his deep brown hair, his tanned skin, to his bearish gait. I wondered, for a moment, if that was what Ron looked like, and if that was what my future son might look like.

And then, shattering the contemplative silence, was Aunt Linda's high laughter. We all looked over at her, head thrown back, hands shaking. We waited for her to catch her breath, to wipe the tears from her carefully lined eyes.

"It..." She gasped for air again, holding up her phone. "It says 'heavy'."

We glanced back to the grave, wondering if there was some legitimacy to this 99 cent download. And then we got the joke. Perched on top of his father's final resting place was Walter, stomping about the ill-growing grass. He stopped, his shoulder slumping in defeat, but his smile growing larger.

"Yeah, I know Dad, I'm fat..."

We all laughed, a chorus echoing off of Mount Calvary. And in that moment, I felt like I really did belong.

Book Review - "S'Mother: The Story of a Man, His Mom, and the Thousands of Insane Letters She's Mailed Him" by Adam Chester

At it's simplest, Adam Chester's "S'Mother" can be summarized as a story of an over-protective single mother. When I first began reading, I had a fairly good idea of what it was I would find within its 170 pages. Honestly, I expected a story I'd heard (and shared) many times before; the 'my-parents-are-crazy-look-how-they-messed-me-up' narrative. While it certainly contained some of those melodramatic elements, it was the dark (and often inappropriate) humor and the sense of genuine love underneath all the bitching that kept me reading through the tears in my eyes.

While Chester explains that his mother had always been a little kooky, the real insanity gold didn't begin until his freshman year at USC. With thousands of miles between him and his Miami-based mother, the expectation of freedom wasn't terribly farfetched. But as anyone with... well, a mother knows, Pooh-Pooh (a nickname used humiliatingly often) quickly learns that distance has absolutely no effect on the level of how damn annoying they can be. Joan Chester's first two letters are innocent enough: "Wear a coat", "Call me more", "Dry your dishes before you put them away". Honestly, they read as a bit boring. It's the third letter, however, that finally managed to capture my interest:

   Tues.

    Adam -

    Don't have anything to do with your paternal grandmother -

    Love,

    Mom

While Chester's need for chronology is understandable, I would have suggested he start from that letter, as it is by far the most interesting of the first ones. It's quirky, mysterious, and just plain odd compared to the usual maternal pleasantries. And yet, it is the letter that first accurately portrays Joan Chester and how "usual, maternal pleasantries" just aren't her thing. 

Throughout the next twenty plus years, the letters only get stranger and stranger. The most intriguing letters, from a reader's point of view, are the ones that quite literally seem to pop out of nowhere, often sent alongside whatever happened to jog the idea in Joan Chester's mind. Some particularly beautiful gems include:

   Sat.

   Adam -

   Do me a favor -

      Please don't eat sushi!

      Thank-you -

   Love,

   Mom (complete with a newspaper clipping worm-infested sushi)

Or this lovely piece, scrawled on a postcard of a man getting shot at:

    #1.

  Hi!!

  Here I am in NYC now!

  Love to all -

  Joan Chester

  6 Charles St. - 1D

  NY, NY 10014

And then, of course, my personal favorite letter, which happened to be nothing but a dime taped to a piece of lined, yellow paper. To "normal" people, this would be considered beyond strange, but it probably had some sort of special meaning to Joan Chester. 

Whiles the letters on their own provide an interesting read, it is Chester's commentary between the pages that give us true insight into what this book is truly "about": the unconditional love family has for each other. Without  the background information Chester provides the reader, many of these letters would just read as insane. While, on the outside, it may seem as if he's trying to drag his mother under the insanity bus, the background information almost serves as Chester trying to justify her acts. In a way, he is standing up for her while trying to bad-talk her. And, really, that's the strange dynamic of families. 

Scar Stories

Right Eye:


When you're five-years-old, the whole world is a game. Candle wax is lava and you are the ice queen who can calm it's burn. The swimming pool is the deepest ocean you'll ever swim.  And the hardwood floor of your best friend's living room is a ginormous ice rink. You slip down to just your socks and hold Baby Brother's hand and spin and spin. Then he lets go, and your feet give out beneath you.


And just like in every game, there's danger. A spell, a demon, or just an unfortunately placed table. One slip, one slice, and you're given a permanent reminder that while you're dreams are big, you're still human and you can, in fact, bleed.


Right Wrist:

When you're twelve-years-old, you're far to obsessed with your looks. It's because everything is changing. When the hell did you grow tits? Is that what a waist looks like? And, holy shit, what the fuck is that on your wrist?! That bulb - that thing. That's definitely not supposed to be part of the maturation process... No, you're just special, in that absolutely ridiculous 'your-body-misplaces-fluids' kind of way.


Anesthesia, intravenous fluids, and the only thing unique about you is the neat little line along the natural curve of your hand.

Right Hip (pretty messed up pattern going on now) and Left Collarbone:

You were seventeen when someone first complimented you on your beauty marks. He said all the big stars had beauty marks, like Marilyn Monroe (he also said he was related to her, but you don't know if you believe him anymore). It was a sign that you were meant for greatness, something far bigger than your small town. You were also seventeen when a doctor first introduced you to the "c" word. More anesthesia, more scalpels, more stitches.

The tests come back clean, but the stitches on your hip pull, leaving this ugly half-dollar mass of too-shiny skin. One more reminder that something beautiful has the power to destroy you.

Adventures in Teaching

I had absolutely no idea what to expect from my lesson on Tuesday (aside from the certainty that something would go absolutely wrong).

The look on classmate's faces when I pulled out Jack Attack varied from excited to nervous to just plain indifferent. Strangely, the nervous faces increased when I told them all to close their eyes. Something about making yourself just a little bit more vulnerable to others frightens people. Add the fact that I'm asking them to write about feelings and all that other emotional crap, it's no wonder some people were nervous. Imagine being the one having to sing for everyone! But, that is another post entirely...

The reactions to the task I provided was rather diverse as well. Some looked excited to revisit their memories, while some people looked close to tears, damn near terrified. Truth be told, I still get close to tears sometimes when I lose myself in my "Sunshine" memory. I don't blame anyone who allowed themselves to feel to the point of overwhelmed.

My classmates looked much more relieved when I asked them to write about their songs. More specifically, I asked them to write about their memories, because they were what was truly important about this experience. No memory was too heavy or too insignificant; the fact that they exist make them meaningful.

Overall, I would say it was a rather enjoyable experience. The responses were mostly positive, making me feel as if I had made the right decision towards my lesson.

A Lesson in Personal Nomenclature or The Ways That Ellen is Me [Revised Essay]

Ellen: An English variation of the Greek Helen, meaning "bright; a shining light" [according to one of the twenty-something name books I own]

---

The only reason I was named "Ellen" was because my great-grandmother had a stroke 30 weeks into my mother's pregnancy. She teetered between this world and whatever comes next for another six weeks, when I made my early arrival. My parents spent those weeks agonizing and stressing and hen those gender-defining words pierced the air, it just felt right. If she died, at least they would have one more "Ellen" around.

That bitch (and I mean that in the most affectionate way possible) stuck around until I was 17. I'm pretty sure she did that on purpose. 

My name was an accident, a rushed decision that seemed like the right one at the time. If my grandmother had been healthy, who would I have been? Grace, Paisley, and Mary had all been in the running, all had just as much of a chance of making it on those cute little Winnie The Pooh birth announcements. But I don't know if I believe in accidents. 

"Ellen, your smile is just illuminating...."

"Mrs. Hill, your daughter is just aglow with new ideas...."

"You, my dear, are a light in a very, very dark world. Don't ever change that..."

No, that can't be an accident... There has to be something more, something much deeper than the seemingly random happenstance that is a name. All the books I've collected over the years tell me the same thing. "Light". Sometimes "airy", often "uplifting". One even called me "gentle". I don't know if I'd go that far, but whatever. Some websites went into huge analyses of the definition of an "Ellen". But like every word, the meaning is nothing without context. So where do I become an "Ellen"?

I was Ellen when I was eight and my brother's friend woke me up in the middle of the night. He was four and he'd gotten sick in the bathroom. I wiped his tears, quite literally gave him the shirt off of my back, and tucked him back into bed. 

When I was ten and my father was cuffed and taken away, I was Ellen, too. Not because of how, even then, I could feel the cold burn of sorrow seep into my veins, but because of how my heart ached for my brothers. They needed me.

And when I sing at the top of my lungs, til my throat goes raw, I'm Ellen. With my eyes closed, heart racing, and applause in my ears (real, I-mean-it applause), I become myself. 

And it is in these moments that I start to think that it is not a matter of becoming an "Ellen", but becoming Ellen. More than a name, but the heart that beats way too fast inside this tiny chest. I'd like to think that "Grace" would have still studied for Spanish exams by watching foreign horror movies. "Paisley" would have totally knocked back her Prozac with a Red Bull. And the funeral director's son would have still fallen ass-over-tea kettle with "Mary". 

Second Hand Clothes, First Hand Life

I'm no stranger to the outdated aisles of the Goodwill (the G Dubs) or the Salvation Army (SA Boutique, Sally's, Salvo...), to blue-ticket sales and buy one-get one deals. Every government-funded welfare child is familiar with the scent of mothballs, like stale sweat in an aged room. The trepidation when you pull into the parking lot, the quick glances from left to right, making sure no one you know sees you go in. That frantic search for American Eagle and Gap needles in the JNCO and Bugle Boy haystack.

Back then, I wore those clothes with shame and resentment. My friends had the entire mall to find their personal style in. Jessica was a Tommy Girl, prim and preppy, while Anna was the sporty Aeropostale girl-next-door. Even Roxie, as ill-allotted as her family's money was, was able to come out of the Arnot as a Hot Topic mall goth. But who was I? The combined effort of people I'd never met. People who pitied little charity cases like me.

Today, I walked to class in a pale blue Victoria's Secret hoodie I purchased for $5 at Goodwill. The cuffs are stained from numerous washings and the screen-printed lettering along the front is beginning to peel. It's a few seasons old and while I could easily afford a new one, I'm content with this one. I learned long ago that I am not my clothing, but my clothing becomes me. Frankly, the idea that my clothing was worn by someone else doesn't frighten me like it used to. This sweatshirt is not perfect, but it's only because it was loved. The previous owner could have just tossed it out, but they chose to share the love instead.

My clothing becomes me and we both get a fresh start.

Happy Skalloween!

Ska music was my first little tip-toe into the vast world of punk rock. The name is directly onomatopoeic to the style, sounding like the drag of a drum stick on a cymbal before they clamp shut. Ssssska. You can hear the blaring trumpets and the walked bass. As an English nerd, I can completely appreciate it.

The Bug Jar is the perfect place to put on a ska show. The relaxed bar with bat-people decorations hanging from the dramatic cobwebs and the local art priced upon the scrawled-upon walls (professing everything from lost loves to political commentary) help to set the mood. But it's the actual venue, a room no larger than the cramped computer lab I type away in, that sets the tone. The DJ stood cramped in a phone-booth sized corner, and the musicians nearly step on each other as they fight for room on the tiny stage. A couch and dining table sit on the ceiling, as if waiting for Spiderman to come home from work and crack open a cold one.

The acoustics in the room are both phenomenal and shitty, wrapping me in the cacophony of horns and drums and guitar. The people dance and mingle amongst themselves, enjoying their private little parties. And then, from where, I'm not sure, two scrawny boys in their skinny jeans and mohawks are on the floor. They cross their arms at the wrists, like the X's marking their hands, and hold onto each other. And they spin. Round and around and around, laughing and smiling and tripping over themselves. How beautiful the world must have been for them at the moment. And then, the skanking begins, a bizarre mix of the Running Man and Tae Kwan Do.

And that's why I love ska, the beautiful love child of punk anger and reggae's one love.