My First Dead Body

My First Dead Body

“My Aunt Carmela died”.

These were Roseanne’s first words when I walked into the candy store where she waited for me.

I was 19 and Roseanne was 17. We had been dating for a few months.

“The wake is at the Gun Hill Funeral Parlor…tomorrow”. I wasn’t sure why Roseanne was sharing that detail until I realized she expected me to go with her. The thought of this terrified me on so many levels. I had never been to a funeral and had no desire to go to one now, but I could tell that this was a social convention and I needed to go along with it.

Roseanne didn’t seem too upset about her aunt’s death, which was great because I probably didn’t have the emotional maturity to be very helpful. I was more than willing to provide a shoulder to cry on if needed. That seemed to be the best I could do.

I had also never met Roseanne’s parents and it was likely that I would also be meeting her entire extended family. This hardly seemed like the ideal occasion for this to happen. In the best of circumstances, I’m painfully shy. It was hard to see how this could go well.

I had only the most abstract understanding of the rituals around death, even though my mother had died eleven years earlier. That was a time when young people were shielded from issues around death. I was not permitted to attend her funeral. I wonder if this had allowed me to compartmentalize my mother’s death. I didn’t see her dead and therefore it didn’t happen. She just wasn’t there anymore.

So, without much choice, I showed up with Roseanne at the funeral parlor. People were milling about sitting on couches and comfortable chairs, talking very casually and I thought, “well this isn’t too bad”. What I quickly discovered was that this wasn’t the funeral itself but the lobby, or the parlor outside of four individual rooms, each one the site for a separate funeral. As soon as we found our way to the appropriate room the smell of flowers was overwhelming. It was like inhaling an air freshener on steroids. The perimeter of the large room was covered with wreaths and floral arrangements of every kind. Folding chairs were occupied by men in dark suits and women in black dresses. Sobs emanated from different sections of the room. I stood at the back, paralyzed by what I was looking at. I was very nervous and had no idea what I was supposed to do.

The sobs took me back to the only element of my mother’s death that I remember. It was the memory of walking up the stairs to my house after school on a December afternoon. As soon as I got to the first step, I saw my father on the porch. I was confused. He wasn’t usually home at that time. His customary slumping shoulders were even more pronounced, turning his body into a human question mark.  I thought I heard people crying from inside the house. My father never expressed emotion very easily. And truth be told, I can’t remember what he said. But his inability to look at me, his uncharacteristic sadness and halting speech, combined with the plaintive sounds coming from our living room, told me the news without him saying anything. 

Adding to my feeling uncomfortable was that I was a “cultural stranger”. I was the only one in that room that was not Italian. When my family moved to the east Bronx we encountered quite a bit of antisemitism (my relationship with Roseanne notwithstanding) so I never knew how I’d be received. Not knowing the funeral etiquette of any culture, I followed Roseanne’s lead and pretty much awaited instructions. All I could think of was Moses’ pronouncement, “I am a stranger in a strange land”

I looked to the front of the room and there was the body, laid out in a tasteful black dress. I wondered what my mother wore as she lay in her coffin. I knew black was appropriate, but I could not remember my mother ever wearing a black dress.

I watched people approach the coffin and they all pretty much followed the same routine: they would go up to the coffin, peer into it for a few seconds, kneel down in front of it, cross themselves, and get up. They would then approach the people who were sitting at the front closest to the coffin (husband, siblings), kiss them, express their condolences, and then find a seat in one of the rows behind these closest relatives. It was all very restrained and respectful.

I wondered if my mother’s funeral was like this (minus the crossing).

Seemingly out of nowhere, one of the more obviously grieving mourners, not content to offer a blessing to the deceased, proceeded to lift her out of the coffin and hug her, wailing loudly.

While I found this display of emotion shocking, most of the mourners were nonplussed. Mercifully, someone pried the body out of the arms of the grieving mourner who had to be led to a seat. I had no idea if I was expected to do the same. All I could think of was “I hope I’m not expected to hug the dead body of someone I don’t even know”.

I was not only a “cultural stranger”, but a stranger to the rites of passing away from earth. I somehow thought that experiencing death as a young person would equip me to handle it as a young adult. Instead, I was paralyzed by fear. I was simply too young when my mother died, to understand the implications of her death.

Finally, Roseanne took my hand and led me to the casket. I stood by and watched her go through the ritual everyone else had. Being Jewish, kneeling, and crossing myself was not in my repertoire, so I thought I would just stand next to Roseanne, hoping I could appear somber from behind. All the while I stood up there, I was afraid someone would confront me about my violation of funeral protocol. Roseanne proceeded to turn her attention to the front row mourners and offer her condolences. Then she said, “Aunt Josie, this is my boyfriend Eddie”. All I could mutter was “Hello, I’m so sorry”. Aunt Josie looked at me and with complete sincerity said, “thank you so much for coming”. As we made our to the back of the room Roseanne introduced me to some other of her cousins who it seemed were unsurprised by this stranger who showed up at a family gathering. Why wasn’t I better prepared for this? If I had been to my mother’s funeral would I know what to say or what to do? Finally, we came upon Roseanne’s parents. After she introduced me, I said “I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances”. Roseanne’s mother took my hand and said. “It was really very nice of you to come”.

I was glad I came too. As my relationship with Roseanne progressed, I found her mother to be incredibly kind to me. I looked forward more and more to spending time with Roseanne’s family. Their rituals became my rituals.

At some level, even at that funeral, I began to understand what it means for people to show they care in your time of grief. But it took a number of years, and funerals, to 1) realize it’s not about me; and 2) understand that there are situations that transcend prejudice, and cultural collisions, and the only hope of peace with people different than ourselves, is meeting them in that place where we have a common inescapable experience.