In Memorium

The lull between Halloween and other fall and winter festivities always presents a rut of sorts for me. Halloween is by far my favorite holiday. I’ve developed a love for disguise, perhaps it also has something to do with the fact that I love playing characters, and my venture into comedy was the only other venue where I could do such a thing. Now my only opportunity to do so, that is in the real world, is on October 31st and the festivities surrounding it.

The other advantage about Halloween for me is that two days later, Dia De Los Muertos is celebrated, a tradition my family has, for nearly all 24 years I’ve been alive upheld. To memorialize those we’ve lost, welcome their spirits back for a few days. We leave them a customary glass of water, a piece of pan de muerto or piece of fruit; display their pictures and maybe a favorite trinket or two. We also celebrate the art associated with this holiday by either making or buying beautiful cut out papel picado, and on a few rare occasions I make crape paper marigolds that I was taught to make upon a chance meeting with one of the geniuses of the genre when I was only 10.

This year however we did not do these things. As I’ve explained in several posts, its not been an easy year for the Magtonic family. Death has been something we’ve confronted almost monthly. Death, something we’ve never really been the type to be afraid of, has shown its face in so many ways that I sometimes feel desensitized to it.

It begs the question how much can one person face his or her own mortality in such a short period of time?

8 losses — 2 amazing celebrations of life, filled with music, speakers, beautiful art, dancers love and laughter. One traditional Irish Catholic funeral bagpipes included. 2 traditional Filipino Catholic weeklong wakes, rosaries followed by a funeral and luncheon. One private family ceremony we were not invited to, though they were our family. One 40 days after death rosary, Filipino Catholic style.

To say I haven’t thought about how I’d like to be remembered, that it doesn’t cross my mind a few times a month, would be in vain. I think about it often.

As we approach December we also approach other news. My father’s impending minor, but also unpredictable surgery. It’s on his skull. He feels no pain; it’s merely a precautionary measure his doctors are taking. Though he is the king of comedy, albeit his own corny variety of the “weird uncle” sort, he has faced it with grace. He’s embraced the humor in it, but is inevitably scared, nervous and unsure. The months of diagnostics, waiting, and arriving at this surgery, though it has little to do with why the diagnostics began, have finally caught up with him.  He had the “if I die” talk with us.

His demands were sweet, funny and saddening of course, but he was just being real. It is a minor procedure, he just wants everyone to know he appreciates them and that he takes nothing for granted so this speech has been given to all he loves, and reacted to in different ways.

He requests:

• That no one wear black at his memorial celebration. If anyone does, the must go home and change into a bright color.
• That everyone pick his or her favorite funk song to play in his honor at said memorial.
• That my best friend of 20 years continues to come over to eat and torture the women in my family about how hard it must be to live with all three of us.
• My mother does whatever makes her happy.
• That I am kind to my sister and continue to make him proud.

In light of how much I have displayed my appreciation for those I love, my bouts of nostalgia as of late, I have also been asking myself:
So how do I want to be remembered?

• I concur with Poppa Magtonic. No one wears black. I would prefer everyone wear orange or purple.
• I want a mariachi band, and kulingtan drummers to play.
• Video, embarrassing photos and stories are absolutely and 100% welcome as an homage to my insanity.
• Something to do with peacock feathers and papel picado as far as décor. I have a peacock feather tattoo; I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed I just find them exceptionally beautiful.
• Lastly a buffet or some extreme sort of meal is mandated. Food, good music, and laughter are what I’ve always been taught are the sources of life, so thusly that’s how I want to be celebrated.

Morbid or not having to face this sort of thing only brings back to reality how much we need to live out each day, and as pessimistic as I may be, I’m really working on that one. I can’t complain too much. The beautiful things about life, have truly shown themselves, I've seen birth, I've seen love (I have not seen fire and rain though I am about to break out into song, and I am by no means a James Taylor fan), it’s just been an excruciatingly difficult terrain to navigate as of late.