I
rushed out of my morning class. I had to get on the road and drive someplace I
have never been. I get lost easily and I went a long time without driving so
when I do get lost I'm *really* lost. I may be in the state I was born in but I
may as well be wandering around the North Pole.
I got
lost about halfway there. Are route 23, route 202, and the Newark-Pompton
Turnpike all the same road? It seemed that way. The GPS kept insisting I was on
route 202, and the signs all said I was on route 23.
I
stopped at a gas station, holding the printout of the google map directions in
my hand. The black guy pumping gas asked the old, white guy in the expensive
car to tell me where to go. The white guy got out of the car and insisted that
he knew exactly where I needed to go. He grabbed the google map instructions
out of my hand and started reading them to me! Really!
I
didn't want to grab them back – that would be rude – but I needed them so I
grabbed them back and walked over to a scruffy-looking white guy working on
some chewing tobacco who talked like Quint from Jaws – a verified local. He
told me where to go.
I got
to St Joseph's Church just in time for the start of Jonathan Shanoian's
funeral. It was a good turnout. Nice to see young and older men in formal suits
so early on a weekday morning.
My
work colleague Tony Krucinski had kindly invited me to attend the wake
yesterday. I couldn't go then; had to work. Too, wakes require small talk and
as verbal as I am, I really suck at small talk. My idea of small talk is to
walk up to a complete stranger and ask, "So, what do you think of the
bombing of Syria?"
I'm
Catholic and I wanted to pray for Jonathan at mass. I was surprised that he was
Catholic. I thought being Armenian he would be some exotic Middle Eastern
branch of orthodoxy. Armenia was the first nation to adopt Christianity as the
state religion – which is the kind of thing I'd say if I had attempted to make
small talk at the wake. Too, I knew Jonathan from work only, and I didn't know
his family at all, so, being a stranger, I'd be doubly relieved from having to
make small talk.
I
wondered if, during mass, as sometimes happens – as happened at my sister
Antoinette's funeral – the priest would ask those of us in the pews if we had
any reminiscences we wanted to offer. If he did that, I knew exactly what I
wanted to say.
When
it came time for the sermon, the officiating priest, who, if Google is not
misleading me, is named Fr. Thomas Mangieri, did something I'd never before
seen a priest do at a funeral. He came down from the altar (St Joseph's is an
intimate church so he didn't have far to go), and he stood in front of two
women in the front pew, and held one woman's hand in one of his hands, and the
other woman's hand in his other hand, and he never let go. The obituary
mentions mother Barbara and sister Alexis. I have to assume those are the
ladies whose hands the priest held, and never let go of, throughout his sermon.
Before
father began his sermon, he looked at the woman and his wordless look said it
all. There was no excuse in this look. No platitudes. No attempt to escape from
the gravity of death. Father could have stopped right there and he would have
done better than many another person attempting to address a too-early death to
a mother who has lost her son. I know. My mother lost two sons, Phil and Mike, and
I saw people struggle with saying the right thing to my mother. Father said the
right thing this morning with that brutally honest, deeply compassionate look
on his face.
But
then he did more. He gave a sermon, and it was fine. He talked about Jonathan
as a person. Father mentioned that Jonathan's job title was
"support." Father remarked that that word said so much about
Jonathan's character. Father used the word "sweetness" and it was
*just* the right word.
Father's
sermon had a narrative arch. It began with the desolation of death. It moved
through the molasses-thick memory of what is lost. It promised the effulgence
of heavenly reunion. Father's facial expressions fully reflected each moment in
the journey of grief. And he never let go of the grieved ladies' hands.
Tears
flowed silently down my face throughout this sermon.
One
of the things I like about being Catholic: the mass is the same. Someone just
died: the mass is the same. Someone was just born: the mass is the same. You
are in the US or Africa or Poland or Nepal: the mass is the same. Yes, the
songs vary, and the readings. I attended a high holyday mass in Poland that
lasted for what felt like two hours. People were kneeling in the aisles and
beating their breasts, which really doesn't happen in the US; the fire marshals
wouldn't allow it. But the basic structure is the same, as the world spins
around you.
During
mass, this weird thing kept happening inside my head. It's as if my mind
replayed all my Jonathan tapes. I never realized how much attention I had paid
to him. I was noting his facial expressions and habitual body language and word
choice. Hearing, again, things he would say. This didn't feel emotional – not
happy, not sad, not yearning – just my mind saying, "This is him, the
person you are saying goodbye to."
That
happens with my sister regularly. I will hear her voice, conjure up her
reaction to this or that. Given that she was my sister, it often happens when I
hear my own voice sounding like hers, or feel my own lips form a facial
expression she often used, my head tilt at the same angle her head would tilt,
at a similar moment.
It's
as if we contain holograms of each other.
As
the mass was ending, I felt that feeling I'd been looking for since I first
heard the news: this isn't a prank or a dream or one of my bigger dyslexic
errors. This is real. I get that now. I won't go to the library and expect to
see him there. There is nothing I can do to fix this. Now it's over and done,
and I am resigned to one more sad thing in the world.
Father
did wait at the door of the church to greet everyone as we exited. I was sure
to say to him, "Great sermon." He shook my hand. I hope he realizes
how sincere my comment was, and how rare – this is the first time I've said
this to a priest.
So,
there was no moment at the funeral where we were asked for comments, so here is
my comment.
I
live alone and have no family and because of this I am more or less invisible.
If you have no one, you are not seen.
And
yet.
The
other morning I had just parked and a uniformed officer began walking toward
me. She was an African American woman. I just was not in the mood. I parked
legally! She wasn't there to give me a ticket, though. She yelled at me,
"So! You're all right!"
"Yes,"
I said. "I'm all right." I had no idea what was going on.
"The
guy at the gas station has been worried about you!"
Whoa.
I
walk daily. People see me walk. One of the people who sees me walk is a Syrian
guy, Imad, who pumps gas at Faisal's in Paterson. I found a better route and I
haven't walked past Faisal's in a while.
The
point of this story: some woman I've never met, somehow knew that I'm the woman
that a guy at a gas station was worried about, because I hadn't walked past his
gas station in a while.
In other
words, we may feel invisible, we may be invisible, but we don't know what
impact we are having on others.
I
know Jonathan solely through work. As many of us have said since he got his
diagnosis, Jonathan was a quiet and private guy. At one point, he had been out
of work for a while, and I was feeling sad about that and wishing I could help
in some way, and one of the librarians (the one who smokes on the bench outside
– for God's sake quit!) said to me that he cared about Jonathan, too, but
Jonathan was a very private person.
I
knew Charlene back in the 1990s before I went to grad school. I gave her my
bulky goat-hair Nepali blankets to store, thinking I'd be back in New Jersey in
a year or two. Little did I know I'd be gone over a decade, and Charlene would
have to keep those itchy monsters much longer. God bless her.
When
I returned to Jersey, Charlene and I reunited. I used to hang out in her office
at the library, and she, Tony, Jonathan and I would chat.
Chatting
with these folks was one of the highlights of my day. There would often be
leftover cookies or other snacks on the table from this or that office party or
campus event. But I wasn't there for the food.
I'm a
woman and I'm a writer and my words are out there for all to see. People have
told me that they love me for what I write – if they like what I say – and
people (sometimes the same people) – have told me that they hate me for what I
write – if they don't like what I say. No one has ever told me that they love
me because I write. That grief that women get for being verbal is unavoidable.
I
reflected that Jonathan and I have been chatting with each other since I
returned to Jersey in 2004, I think, and he *never* gave me a hard time for
voicing an opinion that was different than his. And that is special and
wonderful and unique. Jonathan, thank you.
And
here's an "I'm sorry."
The
past few years have been tough for me. I broke my arm, was diagnosed with
cancer, was diagnosed with a chronic illness, my sister was diagnosed with
cancer, and she died. I have retreated a bit, fearing that the heavy stuff I've
been going through was just too much for others to hear about or be exposed to.
There were times when I could have interacted with Jonathan more – I was in the
library, I needed to be in his office – but I chose not to, thinking, people
don't want to be around me. I'm Miss Catastrophe.
I
remember the last conversation I had with Jonathan. It never finished, and I
kind of melted into the metal shelves back there, and didn't seek him out to
say goodbye that day. That was the last day I ever saw him. And I wish I could
have that moment back to say, "I know you only from the library, but I
cherish you for what you have offered to my life, and, truly, no one will
replace you."
I'm
sorry, and I wish I had known how bad it had gotten for you, and I wish I had
been supportive, and thank you.
And I
tell this little story to say what people always want to say when they just get
in from a funeral – let people know that you value them.
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