So, I have pictures up at my flickr account which I acquired mostly so I could put them on Slog’s Flickr, because I don’t use Yahoo! I also apparently don’t know how to use blogger. For shame.
Access to my Flickr account. Enjoy.
It could have been better. It should have been better. But I won’t judge it… yet. Somehow knowing what to expect makes it easier to justify things.
I can’t decide if certain moments that I laughed, if it was because of quality, awkward translation, or recognition.
But right now, it should have been better.
I’ve only been to one funeral in my life. It was my grandmother’s and I was nine years old.
I’ve always thought it was odd the things I remember, and the things I don’t from my childhood. I remember being shoved outside in the blistering heat every day when the nurse stopped by. I thought it was wholly unfair to be outside just because my grandma needed quiet. I could be quiet, but they wouldn’t hear any of it.
Someone finally told me that the hospice nurse was stopping by to help my grandma let go and pass on.
I remember watching my aunt rush out of the house duing one of these exiles, tears running down my face. No one needed to say anything, because we knew. There was a breeze during that moment, that had not been present our entire stay in Colorado Springs.
There were no tears on my part. I could even remember feeling confused; why was everyone so sad, and chain smoking when all the wanted was for her to finally be at peace, and knowing that cigarrettes was what started her health problems in the first place.
We sat in a church. It was possibly the first time I had ever been in a church. It was big, with a balcony above and stained glass windows. Everyone was crying again. I felt broken that I couldn’t work up the tears. What could be worse than my grandma dying? But the tears wouldn’t come. I watched. I wanted to take in every second of it, hopeful that I would remember every detail until my own death.
I don’t remember the details.
I don’t remember anything of what the preacher said, of what family memebrs said of her. I don’t know what we did after. I imagine we must have gathered at my aunts house, and had some sort of pot luck. I don’t remember if there was a green bean casserole. I do remember watching family members smoking and thinking to myself, “I could pick up a cigarette right now, and do it right the first time, thanks to the studying I’ve done these last weeks.” I didn’t of course. Cigarettes were bad. They killed my grandma.
I remember days later being at a gas station miles from The Springs, possibly not even in Colorado, and seeing my grandma’s car. Same interior, same exterior. Same white hair sitting behind the wheel.
On Saturday, Nov. 15th, I joined 100+ Anchorage residents (and a visiting San Fransicoan) in protesting Prop 8. We started later than most towns; we as Alaskans have our own way of doing things, and 9:30 was too early for the masses, though it would have coincided with other rallies across the nation.
Our small rally turned into an improptu march around downtown, circling first the Egan Center, then back around the state legislature building.
It seemed no matter where I stood, the drums were beating in my ear.
I don’t know if it was just me, or just the wind. But there was a point where we had one voice.
It was pretty freaking sweet.