Weddings and Funerals
Jun. 2nd, 2007 01:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947The young lieutenant looked tall, handsome, and princely, in his formal, dress blue army uniform. He stood, impatiently, at the front of the altar, waiting for the arrival of his bride. There was no trace of the mischievous prankster and raconteur who had regaled the guests at the rehearsal dinner with tales from his youth. He looked serious and solemn as he gazed past the assembled guests in the pews, searching for his wife to be, on the arm of her father. The music alerted them to stand and turn their attention to the rear of the church.
Katie, the maid of honor, was first to process to the front. She was dressed in a sunny yellow gown that lit the room in preparation for the bride. She glided down the aisle, smiling at friends and relatives in that cherubic style, unique to Mary Ellen’s daughters.
Even without the long train, veil, and other traditional accoutrements, Anastasia looked like a princess, as she walked down the aisle. The simplicity of the lustrous, ivory dress that hooked around her neck, accentuated the smooth, flawless skin of her face, and bare shoulders and arms, with a glowing, marble sheen. Her regal beauty and poise was a sharp contrast to her father, escorting her to the front of the church. On this morning, Patrick, in his neat grey suit and tie, could not help but appear humble and ordinary standing next to the radiant essence that was his daughter.
Finally united on the altar, Kevin and Anastasia looked like a storybook rendering of Sleeping Beauty and Prince Charming on their wedding day. They stood in triumph, a handsome couple who had vanquished foes and overcome obstacles to be together. Now they were ready to solemnize their vows, in this Catholic Church on Massachusetts Avenue. Friends and relatives had traveled far and wide to witness this ceremony; they had flown or driven in from London, Israel, Rome, New York, Connecticut, Baltimore, and Los Angeles. With their parents, brothers and sisters, relatives and friends in attendance, Kevin and Anastasia would become their own family now.
It was Saturday of the Memorial Day weekend, and we were in Washington D.C. to celebrate the nuptials of Kathy’s nephew. The irony was that, at the same time, my uncle was being buried in Los Angeles. In fact, it was news of my uncle’s death that began the series of events that would end in this wedding in D.C.
My uncle Tarsicio (Tarsi) died the week before the wedding. He was the sixth child in a family of 14 brothers and sisters; my father being the eldest. Subsequently, I became the first and oldest grandchild and nephew in the family. From that youthful perspective, I was naively aware of my aunts and uncles, and learned something of their early lives. My connections with them diminished after my father’s death in 1971, and, more so, as I became older, married, and began raising a family of my own.
I was first conscious of Tarsi when he was away in the Korean War, and I learned that he was a prisoner of war. He and my uncle Enrique (Henry) had been drafted together into the army, but they returned at different times and in different manners. I have a clear memory of the day Henry returned from war. He phoned home from the corner drugstore, and we ran up the street to find and greet him. Tarsi just reappeared. I don’t recall the exact details of his release or return, but I could feel the sense of relief that permeated the family once he was home. I remember my father telling me that Tarsi was back, and he was glad. His happy and sunny disposition always surprised and delighted me. I guess I expected his war experience to mark him with a dark and brooding demeanor. He never acted that way. He always laughed, joked, and kidded with my family and me. He was also impulsive in what he talked about or asked. You could ask him anything, and he would give you an honest, and, usually, funny answer. He also loved my dad. Tarsi was one of the brothers (Victor and Kado, too) who really looked up to him and sought out his advice.
Tarsi was the only uncle I ever questioned about war. Soviet and North Korean brainwashing was a popular topic during the Cold War years of my youth, and I had seen the movie, and read the book, The Manchurian Candidate. I asked him if he had been interrogated and tortured during his internment in North Korea. He surprised me with his answer. He explained that real torture and brainwashing was not about sadism or psychosomatic hypnotism, but, rather, it was a simple routine of rewards and punishments, with denial of innocuous privileges being the harshest. Torture wasn’t the pulling out of fingernails, or using electric prods; it was submission or the loss of basic necessities: sleep, food, cigarettes, talk, and companionship. For him, life as a POW was about being controlled. That was as much as he told me about that subject.
After his return from the war, Tarsi must have made up for lost time, because the next thing I remember was his double wedding with Henry. He married Alice, and Hank married Lupe. Alice was stunningly beautiful. She had an Ava Gardener look that knocked me out. As he settled back into civilian life, he spent a lot of time with my father. Tarsi was always studying or preparing for city or county jobs or promotions, because my dad was always helping him. Tarsi and Alice were regular visitors, and even served as babysitters on occasions. Eventually these visits became more therapeutic and less social, Alice crying with my mom, and Tarsi speaking with my father. As the marriage began experiencing more problems, Tarsi started coming alone for talks and counseling. I recall visiting their new house in Pico Rivera at about that time. It was brand new and very modern looking, but it did not save the marriage. There were more attempts at reconciliation, but eventually they separated and divorced.
My next memory of Tarsi was helping him decorate his house for the engagement parties he hosted for his younger siblings, Espie and Charlie (Nacimiento Stories), when they got married in 1965. Tarsi was single at the time, and he seemed perpetually carefree and light-hearted. I was a junior in high school, and I thought he was the coolest bachelor in the world. Later, Tarsi remarried, but we only saw him and Irene on formal family occasions, which became less and less after my Dad died, and my grandparents passed away. The last time I saw him was at the giant family reunion in 2002. He looked older, skinnier, but still happy, friendly, and animated.
The news of Tarsi’s death, and lack of specific information, prompted me to communicate with the aunts and uncles for whom I had email addresses. I sent them a quick message asking for details and funeral arrangements. Two aunts, Espie and Lupe, responded, and I learned about the conflicting dates with Kevin’s wedding. When I informed Espie of my dilemma, she made a passing observation that struck me – families depend on special occasions to gather, especially weddings and funerals. If we did not have them, we might never meet again. As far as my father’s family was concerned, we had long passed the age of weddings (all of my aunts, uncles, and first cousins are past the point in life for large-scale weddings, even if they would marry again). We were now entering the era of funerals. Kathy’s family, on the other hand, was just getting started with the second wave of weddings for the mid-range group of grandchildren and first cousins. I expressed my regrets to Espie at not being able to see her and the rest of the family at the funeral, but told her I would try to contact Irene and her children before leaving town.
On Thursday morning, I drove to Irene’s home to pay my respects, and express my condolences. There was a big POW flag flying from the front entrance. No one was there, so I left a sympathy card, and wrote a brief message explaining that I would be unable to attend the services. The flurry of subsequent activities and events distracted me from further thoughts of death, viewings, rosaries, funerals, or burials.
Packing, early departure, baggage check-in, security screening, boarding, and flight delays, all occurred before the plane took off at 7 o’clock, Friday morning. Once in the air, I was able to leave home and business worries behind me, and think only about the gathering in D.C. Despite some early ambivalence about such a long distance trip, this had become a big deal in Kathy’s family. Kathy, Prisa, and I were flying across the country to attend the nuptials of Kevin, the 4th child (of 6), and second son, of Bill and Mary Ellen. Two of Kathy’s sisters, Beth and Meg, and Meg’s husband Luis, and their two children accompanied us, on the flight. On arrival, we would later be joined by their brothers, Greg and Mike (and Mike’s wife, Patty), and a solitary niece, Brigid. In all, seven of Kathy’s ten siblings would be present, or have a representative at the wedding (Brigid, for her mom, Patty). It was an impressive showing of family solidarity, and it was a rare opportunity to meet with family members they did not often see. This wedding in Washington D.C. was a special moment to reaffirm their concept of family, love and matrimonial support, and Kathy and I loved it.
I cannot conceive of a life lived without the intersection, interference, and the involvement of parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, and second cousins (and, possibly, relatives born on the wrong side of the sheets). One family is an equation that is then squared by the existence of a parallel family with the same complexities. When marriage enters the picture as a new factor, the family sum is squared again. Families are an endless logarithmic progression through time, but they are more than calculus. I’ve come to believe that families are the furnaces that fuel the love that sustains each of us through life. Life would be a sad and lonely existence without the love, humor, and sustenance of family.
Both of my parents came from large families. My father was the eldest in a Mexican-American family of 14 brothers and sisters (Nacimiento Stories), and my mother was the sixth, in a Mexican family of 9. In their own fashion, each family was a messy, on-going soap opera of passions, conflicts, problems, resolutions, and joyful celebrations. My dad’s family was more dramatic than my mom’s was. It was a left-brain, right-brain division; his was dominated by feelings and emotions, hers was rationally and logically driven. I never felt overwhelmed or overlooked in these two large families, especially since they existed in separate countries. My father was the Marine veteran, who, after WW II, corresponded with, met, wooed, and wed my mother in Mexico. He then returned, and lived with his bride, in the United States until his death in 1971. In my mind, I did not so much have two families, but two states of mind, two approaches to life, and two cultures to explore and enjoy. My parents produced a relatively small family of their own with 4 sons and two daughters, but when combined with families of their brothers and sisters, we were a huge operatic production. Marrying into Kathy’s family of 8 sisters and two brothers was like coming home (I Shall Be Released). Their drama, though different and more subdued, had more in common with the emotional eruptions in my dad’s family; but their stress on education and professional achievement was similar to my mom’s.
That Memorial Day weekend was a whirlwind of activities, once we arrived. On Friday evening, Margi, Kevin’s eldest sister, hosted the rehearsal dinner at her beautiful home in Maryland. Situated in a wooded area on the outskirts of the capitol, it was our first opportunity to see everyone who had come to the wedding. We were finally able to get a good look at Kevin’s bride, and her father and brother.
The next morning, Greg (I Shall Be Released), Kathy and I went to see the White House, which was right down the street from the Army-Navy Club, where we were staying. We wanted to take full advantage of our stay to visit historical and cultural venues we had missed on previous trips. We were back in plenty of time to change and catch a cab to the church. After the wedding, the three of us hung out at a hotel lounge with Mike and Patty for about an hour before returning to the Army-Navy Club for the wedding reception. It was a fascinating place to stay, and a very historical site to hold a reception. The military attire of the groom, best man, and four other army officers, made this a very appropriate locale for a party. At various times, Bill, Kevin’s dad, would lead tours of the different floors to explore the military library, study, lounge, and artwork. It was an enjoyable and comfortable reception, with just the right number of guests and relatives to stimulate free flowing conversation and laughter. The best part was having a room at the same location as the party. When we felt it was time to go, we simply took the elevator to our room. It was great. However, before leaving the reception, Kathy and her 4 siblings had agreed on one more gathering before ending the evening and going their separate ways. They (and the spouses and children who wished) would meet at the Washington Monument for one last family tour of the mall.
In the course of these events, Kathy had wondered, aloud, if I planned to write something in my blog. I wasn’t sure, because I had not discovered a common theme to tie all of my experiences together. The idea came to me, as I sat in the Daiquiri Lounge, inside the Army-Navy Club, with Kevin, his bride, father and brother-in-law, and the remains of his wedding party. Kathy and I had decided to stop in for a cocktail before heading out to the mall, when we discovered them. They were the remaining vestiges of the reception, the bridal party, waiting for a ride to their hotels, but still looking glamorous. We invited them into the lounge with its military décor, and offered them the chance to keep the party going, on our tab. It was an offer they couldn’t refuse. Listening to Kevin tell the hilarious tales of his adventures growing up in his crazy, world-traveling family, it occurred to me that the theme of the week’s events was so obvious, it was staring me in the face - FAMILY. We had come together today as visible testimony of our support for a new member of the family – Anastasia. We were also there to symbolize our acceptance and joy at their union and creation of a new family of their own. I was here because I am a part of Kathy’s family, just as I am a part of my family in Los Angeles, which was gathering to pay tribute to Tarsi’s memory. In a strange way, I was able to feel part of both occasions, while only being present at one. It could only happen when one is within that mystical equation called FAMILY.
I was sitting there, smugly pleased with this epiphany, when one, lone, troubling thought kept nagging at me. Patrick, the father of the bride, was sitting in this raucous and joyous circle, across from his daughter, not understanding one single word. He does not speak English. What was he thinking and feeling? His daughter had not simply left home to marry Kevin; she had abandoned family and country to do so. I could not help but feel a twinge of sympathetic sorrow for his loss and isolation. When I mentioned this to Prisa, who had joined us, she gave me a different perspective on his emotional state. “Dad, just look at him”, she explained. “All he has to do is gaze at his daughter’s face and see the love that shines through. He doesn’t need to understand English to know that his grown up girl is happy. I don’t think he’d want to be anywhere else but here”. I turned and gave Prisa, the girl who caught Anastasia’s wedding bouquet, a kiss.
Katie, the maid of honor, was first to process to the front. She was dressed in a sunny yellow gown that lit the room in preparation for the bride. She glided down the aisle, smiling at friends and relatives in that cherubic style, unique to Mary Ellen’s daughters.
Even without the long train, veil, and other traditional accoutrements, Anastasia looked like a princess, as she walked down the aisle. The simplicity of the lustrous, ivory dress that hooked around her neck, accentuated the smooth, flawless skin of her face, and bare shoulders and arms, with a glowing, marble sheen. Her regal beauty and poise was a sharp contrast to her father, escorting her to the front of the church. On this morning, Patrick, in his neat grey suit and tie, could not help but appear humble and ordinary standing next to the radiant essence that was his daughter.
Finally united on the altar, Kevin and Anastasia looked like a storybook rendering of Sleeping Beauty and Prince Charming on their wedding day. They stood in triumph, a handsome couple who had vanquished foes and overcome obstacles to be together. Now they were ready to solemnize their vows, in this Catholic Church on Massachusetts Avenue. Friends and relatives had traveled far and wide to witness this ceremony; they had flown or driven in from London, Israel, Rome, New York, Connecticut, Baltimore, and Los Angeles. With their parents, brothers and sisters, relatives and friends in attendance, Kevin and Anastasia would become their own family now.
It was Saturday of the Memorial Day weekend, and we were in Washington D.C. to celebrate the nuptials of Kathy’s nephew. The irony was that, at the same time, my uncle was being buried in Los Angeles. In fact, it was news of my uncle’s death that began the series of events that would end in this wedding in D.C.
My uncle Tarsicio (Tarsi) died the week before the wedding. He was the sixth child in a family of 14 brothers and sisters; my father being the eldest. Subsequently, I became the first and oldest grandchild and nephew in the family. From that youthful perspective, I was naively aware of my aunts and uncles, and learned something of their early lives. My connections with them diminished after my father’s death in 1971, and, more so, as I became older, married, and began raising a family of my own.
I was first conscious of Tarsi when he was away in the Korean War, and I learned that he was a prisoner of war. He and my uncle Enrique (Henry) had been drafted together into the army, but they returned at different times and in different manners. I have a clear memory of the day Henry returned from war. He phoned home from the corner drugstore, and we ran up the street to find and greet him. Tarsi just reappeared. I don’t recall the exact details of his release or return, but I could feel the sense of relief that permeated the family once he was home. I remember my father telling me that Tarsi was back, and he was glad. His happy and sunny disposition always surprised and delighted me. I guess I expected his war experience to mark him with a dark and brooding demeanor. He never acted that way. He always laughed, joked, and kidded with my family and me. He was also impulsive in what he talked about or asked. You could ask him anything, and he would give you an honest, and, usually, funny answer. He also loved my dad. Tarsi was one of the brothers (Victor and Kado, too) who really looked up to him and sought out his advice.
Tarsi was the only uncle I ever questioned about war. Soviet and North Korean brainwashing was a popular topic during the Cold War years of my youth, and I had seen the movie, and read the book, The Manchurian Candidate. I asked him if he had been interrogated and tortured during his internment in North Korea. He surprised me with his answer. He explained that real torture and brainwashing was not about sadism or psychosomatic hypnotism, but, rather, it was a simple routine of rewards and punishments, with denial of innocuous privileges being the harshest. Torture wasn’t the pulling out of fingernails, or using electric prods; it was submission or the loss of basic necessities: sleep, food, cigarettes, talk, and companionship. For him, life as a POW was about being controlled. That was as much as he told me about that subject.
After his return from the war, Tarsi must have made up for lost time, because the next thing I remember was his double wedding with Henry. He married Alice, and Hank married Lupe. Alice was stunningly beautiful. She had an Ava Gardener look that knocked me out. As he settled back into civilian life, he spent a lot of time with my father. Tarsi was always studying or preparing for city or county jobs or promotions, because my dad was always helping him. Tarsi and Alice were regular visitors, and even served as babysitters on occasions. Eventually these visits became more therapeutic and less social, Alice crying with my mom, and Tarsi speaking with my father. As the marriage began experiencing more problems, Tarsi started coming alone for talks and counseling. I recall visiting their new house in Pico Rivera at about that time. It was brand new and very modern looking, but it did not save the marriage. There were more attempts at reconciliation, but eventually they separated and divorced.
My next memory of Tarsi was helping him decorate his house for the engagement parties he hosted for his younger siblings, Espie and Charlie (Nacimiento Stories), when they got married in 1965. Tarsi was single at the time, and he seemed perpetually carefree and light-hearted. I was a junior in high school, and I thought he was the coolest bachelor in the world. Later, Tarsi remarried, but we only saw him and Irene on formal family occasions, which became less and less after my Dad died, and my grandparents passed away. The last time I saw him was at the giant family reunion in 2002. He looked older, skinnier, but still happy, friendly, and animated.
The news of Tarsi’s death, and lack of specific information, prompted me to communicate with the aunts and uncles for whom I had email addresses. I sent them a quick message asking for details and funeral arrangements. Two aunts, Espie and Lupe, responded, and I learned about the conflicting dates with Kevin’s wedding. When I informed Espie of my dilemma, she made a passing observation that struck me – families depend on special occasions to gather, especially weddings and funerals. If we did not have them, we might never meet again. As far as my father’s family was concerned, we had long passed the age of weddings (all of my aunts, uncles, and first cousins are past the point in life for large-scale weddings, even if they would marry again). We were now entering the era of funerals. Kathy’s family, on the other hand, was just getting started with the second wave of weddings for the mid-range group of grandchildren and first cousins. I expressed my regrets to Espie at not being able to see her and the rest of the family at the funeral, but told her I would try to contact Irene and her children before leaving town.
On Thursday morning, I drove to Irene’s home to pay my respects, and express my condolences. There was a big POW flag flying from the front entrance. No one was there, so I left a sympathy card, and wrote a brief message explaining that I would be unable to attend the services. The flurry of subsequent activities and events distracted me from further thoughts of death, viewings, rosaries, funerals, or burials.
Packing, early departure, baggage check-in, security screening, boarding, and flight delays, all occurred before the plane took off at 7 o’clock, Friday morning. Once in the air, I was able to leave home and business worries behind me, and think only about the gathering in D.C. Despite some early ambivalence about such a long distance trip, this had become a big deal in Kathy’s family. Kathy, Prisa, and I were flying across the country to attend the nuptials of Kevin, the 4th child (of 6), and second son, of Bill and Mary Ellen. Two of Kathy’s sisters, Beth and Meg, and Meg’s husband Luis, and their two children accompanied us, on the flight. On arrival, we would later be joined by their brothers, Greg and Mike (and Mike’s wife, Patty), and a solitary niece, Brigid. In all, seven of Kathy’s ten siblings would be present, or have a representative at the wedding (Brigid, for her mom, Patty). It was an impressive showing of family solidarity, and it was a rare opportunity to meet with family members they did not often see. This wedding in Washington D.C. was a special moment to reaffirm their concept of family, love and matrimonial support, and Kathy and I loved it.
I cannot conceive of a life lived without the intersection, interference, and the involvement of parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, and second cousins (and, possibly, relatives born on the wrong side of the sheets). One family is an equation that is then squared by the existence of a parallel family with the same complexities. When marriage enters the picture as a new factor, the family sum is squared again. Families are an endless logarithmic progression through time, but they are more than calculus. I’ve come to believe that families are the furnaces that fuel the love that sustains each of us through life. Life would be a sad and lonely existence without the love, humor, and sustenance of family.
Both of my parents came from large families. My father was the eldest in a Mexican-American family of 14 brothers and sisters (Nacimiento Stories), and my mother was the sixth, in a Mexican family of 9. In their own fashion, each family was a messy, on-going soap opera of passions, conflicts, problems, resolutions, and joyful celebrations. My dad’s family was more dramatic than my mom’s was. It was a left-brain, right-brain division; his was dominated by feelings and emotions, hers was rationally and logically driven. I never felt overwhelmed or overlooked in these two large families, especially since they existed in separate countries. My father was the Marine veteran, who, after WW II, corresponded with, met, wooed, and wed my mother in Mexico. He then returned, and lived with his bride, in the United States until his death in 1971. In my mind, I did not so much have two families, but two states of mind, two approaches to life, and two cultures to explore and enjoy. My parents produced a relatively small family of their own with 4 sons and two daughters, but when combined with families of their brothers and sisters, we were a huge operatic production. Marrying into Kathy’s family of 8 sisters and two brothers was like coming home (I Shall Be Released). Their drama, though different and more subdued, had more in common with the emotional eruptions in my dad’s family; but their stress on education and professional achievement was similar to my mom’s.
That Memorial Day weekend was a whirlwind of activities, once we arrived. On Friday evening, Margi, Kevin’s eldest sister, hosted the rehearsal dinner at her beautiful home in Maryland. Situated in a wooded area on the outskirts of the capitol, it was our first opportunity to see everyone who had come to the wedding. We were finally able to get a good look at Kevin’s bride, and her father and brother.
The next morning, Greg (I Shall Be Released), Kathy and I went to see the White House, which was right down the street from the Army-Navy Club, where we were staying. We wanted to take full advantage of our stay to visit historical and cultural venues we had missed on previous trips. We were back in plenty of time to change and catch a cab to the church. After the wedding, the three of us hung out at a hotel lounge with Mike and Patty for about an hour before returning to the Army-Navy Club for the wedding reception. It was a fascinating place to stay, and a very historical site to hold a reception. The military attire of the groom, best man, and four other army officers, made this a very appropriate locale for a party. At various times, Bill, Kevin’s dad, would lead tours of the different floors to explore the military library, study, lounge, and artwork. It was an enjoyable and comfortable reception, with just the right number of guests and relatives to stimulate free flowing conversation and laughter. The best part was having a room at the same location as the party. When we felt it was time to go, we simply took the elevator to our room. It was great. However, before leaving the reception, Kathy and her 4 siblings had agreed on one more gathering before ending the evening and going their separate ways. They (and the spouses and children who wished) would meet at the Washington Monument for one last family tour of the mall.
In the course of these events, Kathy had wondered, aloud, if I planned to write something in my blog. I wasn’t sure, because I had not discovered a common theme to tie all of my experiences together. The idea came to me, as I sat in the Daiquiri Lounge, inside the Army-Navy Club, with Kevin, his bride, father and brother-in-law, and the remains of his wedding party. Kathy and I had decided to stop in for a cocktail before heading out to the mall, when we discovered them. They were the remaining vestiges of the reception, the bridal party, waiting for a ride to their hotels, but still looking glamorous. We invited them into the lounge with its military décor, and offered them the chance to keep the party going, on our tab. It was an offer they couldn’t refuse. Listening to Kevin tell the hilarious tales of his adventures growing up in his crazy, world-traveling family, it occurred to me that the theme of the week’s events was so obvious, it was staring me in the face - FAMILY. We had come together today as visible testimony of our support for a new member of the family – Anastasia. We were also there to symbolize our acceptance and joy at their union and creation of a new family of their own. I was here because I am a part of Kathy’s family, just as I am a part of my family in Los Angeles, which was gathering to pay tribute to Tarsi’s memory. In a strange way, I was able to feel part of both occasions, while only being present at one. It could only happen when one is within that mystical equation called FAMILY.
I was sitting there, smugly pleased with this epiphany, when one, lone, troubling thought kept nagging at me. Patrick, the father of the bride, was sitting in this raucous and joyous circle, across from his daughter, not understanding one single word. He does not speak English. What was he thinking and feeling? His daughter had not simply left home to marry Kevin; she had abandoned family and country to do so. I could not help but feel a twinge of sympathetic sorrow for his loss and isolation. When I mentioned this to Prisa, who had joined us, she gave me a different perspective on his emotional state. “Dad, just look at him”, she explained. “All he has to do is gaze at his daughter’s face and see the love that shines through. He doesn’t need to understand English to know that his grown up girl is happy. I don’t think he’d want to be anywhere else but here”. I turned and gave Prisa, the girl who caught Anastasia’s wedding bouquet, a kiss.
