I'd Like to Grieve in a Much Cooler Way
Why are we so entrenched in sadness?
Those of us in western cultures grieve pretty hardcore, don’t we?
Of course, it’s the saddest thing on earth to lose a loved one and we make damn sure everyone knows it’s the saddest. Grief on Instagram is a whole showcase of who’s the most bereaved.
Why are we so entrenched in the most wretched parts of death?
In a previous life, I spent many years as a destination writer in Jamaica. It was my pleasure and privilege to experience the nitty-gritty of the island and its culture.
One of the most bizarre things I ever did was attend a memorial event against my will. Okay, so it wasn’t against my will but it certainly wasn’t on my agenda.
I had planned a day for a friend to tour me around the southern coastline on the back of his motorbike. We were out for hours, me in my cutoffs, a tank top, and flip-flops. Crazy windblown hair from riding without a helmet.
As we rode down a small rural road we came upon an open yard where hundreds of people were gathered. Loud music played from speaker stacks, and everyone had a drink in their hand.
It looked like a helluva street party.
My friend parked his bike and we entered the yard. Unbeknownst to me, it was a funeral gathering for a community resident.
How did I figure that out? Because a crowd of onlookers was congregated around the most extraordinary grave marker I’d ever seen. It was an exact scale replica of the actual home in the yard, hand-crafted out of concrete.
This is not the one but it was just as elaborate.
The travel writer in me desperately wanted to snap photos because it was unbelievably cool, but the human in me knew it would be inappropriate.
Not only did I feel awkward being there the way I was dressed, but I stood out like a sore thumb based on my skin color.
For a brief moment, I felt like a total insult to the family. A casually dressed foreigner crashing a Jamaican funeral. But then someone handed me a drink in a red party cup, gave me a cheers and a “yah mon,” and I felt welcome.
I swear it was one of the oddest moments I’d ever experienced on that island. But in hindsight, it’s only odd because that’s not what we do.
In Jamaica, the funerary tradition is called a “Nine-Night,” or sometimes a Dead Yard. I’d always heard of it but never seen one until that day.
Wikipedia says:
“It’s a tradition practiced in the Caribbean (primarily Belize, Antigua, Grenada, Dominica, Jamaica, Guyana, Trinidad and Haiti). It is an extended wake that lasts for several days, with roots in African religious tradition. During this time, friends and family come together to the home of the deceased.
In the old days, the nights were calm and reserved for the most part - but that tradition has changed with the times. Today, these gatherings resemble parties much more than they resemble wakes.
Jamaicans aren’t the only ones who celebrate death on such a grand scale.
In New Orleans, they might send you out with a Jazz parade.
In Bali, public cremation is a festive occasion that frees the spirit.
In Ghana, they celebrate death in style with fantasy coffins.
In Mexico, they have Dia de Muertos (Day of the Dead), a vibrant celebration of all souls.
And here in North America? We sit in a church and cry. And then cry some more. And then we make a Facebook tribute page. And then we go on Instagram and create a melancholy profile for our grief.
It’s interesting to think that where you are on earth can dictate how you feel about and commemorate death.
Those overdone graves in Jamaica certainly make me feel less conspicuous about hanging headphones over my son’s urn, as we discussed in Urning and Learning.
How do you feel about the way we commemorate death in our culture? Have you ever considered that we focus too much on the loss and not enough on celebrating the life that once was?
Last year I wrote this from my son’s point of view. It’s how I think he experienced his own memorial service.
In March, near the second anniversary of my husband's death, a young woman tried to shame me for mentioning my husband. I told a very brief funny story. It's not like I talk about him all the time or weep and moan. I like to remember his humor and wisdom. Except for my widow friends, others want me to pretend he never existed. We're a soulless and selfish bunch in our culture.
I will be posthumously offended if those I leave behind turn into sad sacks every time they think of me.