I've attended more than my fair share of funeral home visitations and services lately. We Americans have sanitized the ritual to the point where you'd never know that grief was the common denominator of the participants. Of course, I'd be appalled if I ever walked into a funeral home and was greeted by wails and hair pulling; but I'm just as appalled by the calm, teary smiles, hugs, handshakes, and barely audible condolences.
The only funeral I ever attended that seemed real was when one of my African-American students died from leukemia at the age of 18. Reggie had been sick for months, doing that yo-yo recovery thing so many cancer patients experience. His family was large with many siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles. A gifted athlete and class clown, Reggie was popular with the kids and teachers at school. That added another element of drama. Finally, he was taken to Children's Hospital for the last time. All of us, relatives, teachers, friends, waited for the end. Late one afternoon Reggie's cousin, Michael, burst into the library and yelled, "Reggie's gone!" He was out the door and down the hall before I could catch him, a dark, long limbed blur in an orange jersey, crying uncontrollably. Michael's despair broke my heart as much as losing Reggie.
Several faculty members, including the principal, attended the funeral. It was standing room only in the little Baptist church. Brothers, sisters, cousins, and in-laws sat in the choir section facing the congregation. There was no turning away from all that emotion.
The emotional scale ran the gamut from screams and fainting by Reggie's mother to songs and jubilation for his departure to the heavenly shores of salvation. We were up, then down, an emotional roller coaster. It was noisy and exhausting but, oddly satisfying. I left the church tired and sad and happy. That funeral allowed me to celebrate a happy kid and be grateful for the time I knew him but mourn openly that he died prematurely.
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