I recently attended a memorial service. The service was held in a non religious venue-which did not bother me in the least. I did not know the young man who died,tragically, and too young I might add. I was there to be supportive of the younger sister and to pay my respects.  In fact, I did not know much of the family history-there had been a divorce early on-but from what I knew, life went on as it does when parents divorce and families part. There were displays of pictures set up all around the room-showing a happy boy, the same grin and bright eyes, the same look on his face from toddler times right up to the last photo taken of him only two weeks earlier.  Family photos of the siblings, in happier times, celebrating holidays, milestones and independence. As people gathered in the small space upstairs and then filled in the overflow downstairs, it was obvious the young man lived a life filled with friends, each one making an angry, puffy eyed, tearfilled entrance- twenty somethings,many with bare-feet, layers of sustainable living wear,tattoos, piercings, mohawks, and non vocal signs of solidarity. Obviously, he had found his own family, and was making a life that was unique to who he was. And then there were the others, extended family, I guessed, entering all pulled together and somber-wearing the proper clothing one was expected to wear on a day of remembering the dead.  There was a wave of tension-not the weary kind we all feel when  we gather and remember someone no longer with us;but there was also the funk of a family that had been broken for a long time….and there in the front row, mom and dad, distanced even now by their other children.  And then the service began.  It began with a friend, playing the guitar that had belonged to the deceased. The song was an angry series of wails and moans-off pitch and unmelodious- a coda to what was about to be unleashed on us all sitting there, being respectful-and about to witness, not a memorial but an airing of dirty family laundry. 

The opening line-the very first words uttered defined the young man as a victim of divorce, who had his heart shattered at the age of 4 and had been searching for happiness his whole (young) life.  I was taken aback. We heard tales of his violence, his truancy, his drug abuse, attempted suicides, his ill at ease with society and all it stands for, his lack of respect for authority,his ability to be non judgemental of others, except those he seemed to disapprove of for whatever his reasons were, his love of video games, punk rock and anything that defied rules and regulation.  We heard how hard he tried.We learned of his disappointments and his struggles, his ability to make others happy-and how maybe he had finally found his own.  And then his source of new found happiness got up to speak, her newly shaved head a display at how “fucked up” this all was, her raw anger, raging out with fists pumped, bare fee stomping on the floor, her quest to squelch her own anger and clean up all his broken glass, her resolve to make sense of it all.  So many tears, bitter acid tears of a family and friends so torn.  It made me sad-to the core sad to watch this all unfold-what once must have hung so neatly on the line-now flapping all around in a wind storm. It was tragic.  Sadly tragic.  Here I sat watching the young life of a man I did not know, come even more unraveled after his death. Not once during the almost two hours of a life recapped, did I hear anyone say “I am sorry for your loss”, or even, “I am sorry.”  There was not one prayer of the religious kind( not that I expected it given the location) but  not even a silent moment of healing, a thought or two for a life cut short, a wish for peace.  As the service ended and people poured out from all over, sobs ending and beginning again, I made my way to the sister, hugged her close and left-not knowing what to say. As I walked away and looked back, I swear I could almost see a cloud of misery hanging over the reception area, so beautifully adorned with white table cloths, fresh flowers and more photos of the young man hanging out, airing out.

I drove home, not sure of what I had witnessed-and very uncomfortable with what I had.  Through out the week, thoughts, expressions, comments I observed have been flailing in the breezes of my own mind.  While I am all for honesty and accountability and certainly for people to find ways to make amends, I am quite sure, airing out the dirty family laundry at a memorial service is not a wash I’d like to repeat.