Don't wear red at a Chinese Funeral Ceremony. Got it?
Yesterday my father and I attended a memorial for Auntie Ruth, who made it to 93, and 91 of those years living independently. A crowd of about 150 people, active users of black hair dye (hey Grecian, how about some give back?) serenaded Ruth Qok with sincere memories and heartfelt wishes. Dad held up pretty well and it was nice to see Anna, the elder silver haired lady who used to have a store in Chinatown. She always gave me a 5 cent discount whenever I bought candy. A man struggling past us on his walker asked if I was with my father. When I responded yes, he told me that when my father was younger, he was a "tough guy and a good man". Auntie Ruth was another member of the "it takes village" community who was not a blood relative. Her family had a laundry on Clay Street with a place to visit in front, and many people did. My grandmother made it a daily stop.
My grandmother was sort of the Don Corleone of the family- not for any criminal endeavors but for the respect she had in the community; her presence and her endurance. She also had a flair for the dramatic and I recall holding her at memorials. At some point usually upon visiting the open casket, Paw Paw would sigh, moan, her body suddenly limp, and we would hold tight to keep her from falling.
An interesting facet of progress is what is lost when movement for the greater good steps forward. Back in my parents young days, when the Chinese were restricted within the borders of Chinatown (explore beyond, and face a beating from the guardians of the gates, the police- as happened to my dad), this created a stronger community, where everyone was connected to each other. A big family. Milestones were shared and family gatherings were often, held in restaurants where food seemed as important as the birth of a new baby, a birthday or a marriage. Now the freedom to live where we want and less than a generation away from the absence of these gatherings. These days they are few. For the children of our parents have lost the connection, and our children will know of it, only in story- or experienced in such a rare form as bearing witness to a fin whale in the Pacific Coast.
Red is the color of celebration in our community and that is why you don't want to wear red at a funeral. Of course, if you really disliked the deceased you might consider it. Oddly, wearing black at a wedding is probably okay (we like black) but you might want to add a little color to break up prince of darkness attire (such as a red tie). At the open casket, it is customary to take a moment for a silent wish, then three bows, originating from the neck, not the waist and in simultaneous movement with whoever you are with.
Let me go back to writing about my grandmother, the only grandparent I knew. She lived to 98 (I always believe she didn't want to go to 100, where people might call her "old"). In her 90's she too was still traveling about on her own, walking down the hills to visit me when I worked at Double Rainbow ice cream, or riding the 1 California to Chinatown. Old time shop keepers would still take care of her and she enjoyed visiting. Once when I drove her the parking lot was full and I had to reroute us to another parking lot seven blocks away. My Chinese is at best, exceptonally poor and I could not explain why I backed out of the preferred lot. In the parking lot, grandma simmered and in the elevator, in memorable fashion, verbally let me have in a great volcanic eruption of reproval. She was oblivious to the awed tourists.
Against traditional customs, Grandma's father did not believe in the beauty norm of the day which was breaking young woman's feet so that their feet would be tiny. He believed the tradition stupid for the crippling effect it imposed on these young women. To say that my Grandmother was tough would be understating her disposition greatly. My memories at the family banquets where hundreds gathered, would be many individuals, old and young coming over to our table and paying respects to grandma, who loved the attention.
What of my other grandparents? All died before I was born- my mothers' father died when she was three but her mother- both grandmothers became friends, although of very different temperaments. Grandfather on my dad's side worked in a store and during a robbery was shot. Physically he was always wounded and his wife never had the patience for it, considering him weak.
In my 20's I enjoyed visiting Grandma and drinking the hard hard shots of her favorite beverage which phonetically sounds like oon kay pay. It was something close to 150% proof. I later needed to bring Contreau because that was not as strong. Grandma did not seem to mind. She was the exception; hard liquors and cigarettes did not stop her. Her memories of being interned on Angel Island, she would only say that the food was bad. My last interaction with her is a good one. Visiting her at her apartment, we both laughed, laughing to hysterics, without either of us knowing what began this nonsensical conversation. Days later as Maria and I took a trip to Cambria, she died.
Asked to come up with something for her memorial, I was drawing blanks- feeling the pressure of the task at hand. Nothing. The morning of her service, very early, I sat on her old mattress, and came up with words and feelings that communicated what needed to be said. I wore black, but my words were of red.
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