Since I last blogged I've lost three more people (and I haven't even taken that much of a break from blogging).
My uncle Lee succumbed to his increasingly age-weakened body (a heart operation had left him too weak for more operations), and he fell sick again.
My next-door-neighbor Steve was felled by complications of lung cancer (and no he wasn't a smoker except for smoking salmon very expertly). Steve was my neighbor as long as I could remember. Growing up my first best friend was his daughter Gretchen (regrettably only around during summer vacation).
And I really valued both Lee and Steve, but I didn't cry. I teared up a little thinking of how my aunt and how Steve's wife and children were feeling, but I didn't cry.
Then Karjam's niece, Ahyangtso died. I wrote about her, here. Not that long ago, either. I loved her. She was the one who ate the food that I couldn't manage to refuse, but wasn't going to eat. She was the one who watched out for me and my needs even when Karjam was too distracted to notice. She was the one I was willing to have come and live with us. She was amazing.
She died in a freak accident, and hopefully it was almost instantaneous.
When I realized Karjam wasn't joking, that this had really happened to the girl he called his favorite niece, and to the girl who definitely was my favorite Tibetan niece (I like Drashijhet a lot, too, just for the record), I turned off the stove (I'd started cooking dinner), marched into my closet, closed the door and bawled until a little part of my brain started worrying about my throat and the fact that I had to teach eight hours the next day using that same throat.
Ahyangtso never got to do the things she wanted to do with her life. She was 19. So incredibly unfair.
A photo of Ahyangtso features on this blog entry that I wrote a few months ago.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Thursday, May 1, 2014
Sunday, January 19, 2014
Death and Mourning in Tibet
All of us could learn from Tibetans and from Karjam's family something about how to handle death and mourning. It was amazing, absolutely amazing to me, as a Western person, how the family was able to deeply honor Apa Lorae, but also continue to be happy and full of laughter, and remember him in a really good way. Of course, each death is different, how a person dies and the life the person has lived really impacts how the survivors handle the death. In Apa Lorae's case he was diagnosed with advanced stomach cancer, already spread to the liver, in September. This gave the family some time to prepare, mentally and practically, for his passing. That time to prepare, obviously, helped everyone. I think Tibetans would kick Western ass at dealing with a death in the family in the case of a sudden death, too, but that was not what happened in this case.
By the end Apa Lorae was in a lot of pain, and very weak, only able to take a few spoonfuls of broth or milk. He had to ask someone to shift his body every twenty minutes or so, and according to Karjam, not everyone was able to do it to his satisfaction, so in those last weeks Karjam was by his side, especially all night long, as Apa Lorae only slept a few minutes at a time, to help him. He retained his mental acuity until the morning of his death, and Karjam had some very touching stories of the things he said. Although he had been living in a house in the village, when he was preparing to die they moved him to Tubko (his second son)'s winter house in the grasslands-- a house where at night the yaks were tied up, and the sheep gathered close. He spent a lot of time on the glassed-in porch, looking out across the grasslands, and soaking in the sun (the Tibetan sun is very very bright and if you're protected from the wind, such as on a glassed-in porch, even with single pane glass, during the day you'll stay quite warm in the sun). As had been his lifelong habit he was able to continue fingering his prayer beads, and spinning a hand-held prayer wheel. Monks also came and visited and chanted with him, a lama placing his hand on Apa Lorae's head and chanting-- in other words he prepared well for his death. The day before his death it was one of those gorgeous mornings where temperature inversion causes a fog to lift off the land and swirl in the sun, making the landscape magical. Karjam told his dad how it looked, and his dad told him "dear one, you must take a photo." This touched Karjam very deeply, because he felt that even as he was too weak to move on his own, his father was thinking outside his own reality (he's never used a camera in his life), and placing himself within Karjam's world and the things that were of importance to Karjam.
On the morning of his death Karjam saw a sudden change in him, physically, and was able to call together most of the family to be there as he took his last breaths (there was a little less than an hour between when they called everyone and the actual passing). At this point he no longer appeared to be mentally engaged with his surroundings, but the family held him and Tubko chanted the long form of the mantra for Tara very loudly, telling Apa Lorae to hold on to the sound of his voice. Karjam was very complimentary about how perfectly his brother did this-- the exact words someone should have in their ears as they pass to the next realm. Contrast that with wailing and crying and you have a very powerful image, just in that moment.
After someone dies there are 49 days during which they have not yet moved onto their next life, and during those days the business of their life needs to be settled (as well as all the funeral processes taken care of). The first 21 days are the most important of those days. I arrived in Ahwencang on the 20th day, so I missed most of this.
The body (after death) could not be touched by any of Apa Lorae's children, because symbolically this is equated with having killed your father. Two people were selected to take care of this process, one of whom was chosen by Apa Lorae himself, Dorsey (son of Zhyibuk, Apa Lorae's first son). Dorsey is full of failings, and I am so mad at him on some levels (as are others in the family), but he had a very close bond with Apa Lorae and his heart is very good. He and another relative prepared the body (and later they had to be specially spiritually cleansed). Karjam described how Dorsey was extremely protective of Apa Lorae's body, making sure that something that might hurt a live person did not happen to him in death (protecting from bumps in the road when they drove the body to Xiahe to be cremated, for example). They did decide to cremate the body, a decision that Apa Lorae made with them, because even though Tubko's house is on the land with the sky burial site in Ahwencang, unlike other areas of Tibet there is no special person who is a "body breaker" to prepare the body to be eaten by vultures, instead in Ahwencang family members (but not children) take this job. It's emotionally not easy. Karjam's family, relatively modern, opted for cremation and spreading his ashes at a lot of sites, including the sky burial site in Ahwencang, where they also ritually erected a prayer flag offering for Apa Lorae (around the 10th day, I'm not exactly sure). That prayer flag offering is the closest thing to a headstone he will have.
According to everyone Ama Dunmajhet cried once after Apa Lorae's death, when something that one visitor said really struck home for her. A large number of people who felt the need continually visit the house (especially during the first 21 days) after the death to offer their support to the family, and express their love of the deceased. It's very bad form if certain people do not visit, certainly the family is not left alone, nor do people just bring a casserole and then quickly leave after an awkward and strained silence. The family is constantly entertaining for those 21 days. People may speak of how great the deceased was, and the deceased can be the topic of conversation, or not.
Although people don't bring casseroles, they can support the family by bringing meat (carcasses, or parts of carcasses) because during the YEAR after his death the family cannot kill or sell any of their animals. They can buy meat, and eat meat, but they cannot kill. This, of course, is quite inconvenient when you have to provide meat for all the guests that keep coming, and all the monks performing different ceremonies (such as that already described on this blog). I was rather fascinated with the no-kill idea, and kept trying to figure out who it extended to. It's a bit of a grey area. Definitely all the households of all Apa Lorae's children (that's 8 households) and the grandchildren who have lived with him (none of those have independent households yet) are included, but whether or not other grandchildren (many of whom do have independent households) are included is less defined. I never asked if his sister's household (he only had one sibling, Jabu's mother) would also be on the no-kill list. I also wondered what happened if then another family member died before one year was up. Would a nomad family with an increasingly large herd be prevented from killing or selling (that's their source of income) any animals for two years? [This is a tangent, sorry.]
After someone dies a special monk (not a lama), who has extensive training will determine what sort of life they've lived and what sort of ceremonies and chants are needed to atone for any problems with their life to help prepare them for a good rebirth. I kept trying to push Karjam to give me more information about how this monk would know-- "do they ask the family if he lived a good life?" but what Karjam knew was that the monk was able to calculate this based on spiritual powers, more or less. Apparently no one ever thinks this has been done "wrong." In the case of someone like Apa Lorae, well known for being generous and unconcerned with material wealth (he never learned to tell one piece of money from another), as well as an extremely ardent Buddhist (taking pilgrimages, circumambulating the temple, chanting constantly), the various ceremonies the monks needed to do were relatively "easy" -- the types of things that many monks are authorized to do (not more advanced and specialized ceremonies). A neighbor died while I was in Ahwencang and Karjam said he heard that family was having a really hard time because the ceremonies they needed monks to do were very hard to find monks for, often needing lamas to lead them, and that was expensive and difficult to organize, and the family was scrambling to get it all done during the 21 days (and might not be able to).
I think that being so busy dealing with guests and ceremonies helps to keep the family from dwelling on loss in a bad way. Western death needs more ceremony! It needs more acknowledgement. Don't just send that family home from the funeral to dwell and fester on what they forgot to say or do during the departed's lifetime! Also Apa Lorae meant to finish certain Buddhist tasks (spinning a certain prayer wheel at the temple X number of times, or circumambulating a certain prayer hall at another temple X number of times, or doing X number of prostrations at X site) and didn't, so these tasks were taken by the family to be finished during the 49 days, as a sort of last gift to Apa Lorae, they were doing these instead of him to help him acquire even more merit for his rebirth. I feel like these actions helped in the mourning process, too. Especially Tubko's children were very active with this (Tubko's family is the family line, the family that has taken over Apa Lorae's herd, etc. and that he's lived with). Having something to do for the dead after they've left is another really good thing the Tibetans have that Western culture doesn't. I do 108 prostrations a day for Apa Lorae. This is not a lot, per se, but it has been tough at times (when I'm sick, when I'm on the road). The prostrations allow me to think on Apa Lorae and actively and intently visualize his wonderful rebirth. Apa Lorae was one of the best people I've ever met, and so close to attaining enlightenment, so just perfectly good, so I've been hoping that in his next life he has the opportunity to really focus on spiritual cultivation.
Final point I want to make, since I've been writing this when I need to get work done now that I'm back in Korea, is that the family is fine. They're still happy. They lost Apa Lorae, but at his age (first half of his 70s), and due to the time to prepare after the diagnosis, they accept it as natural (when first diagnosed Karjam was really upset, because he felt he'd screwed up by not getting his father fully checked in order to detect something in advance). For them death is a serious thing, with ritual and rules that will govern their lives for the next year, but life goes on, not as some tear-soaked tragedy, but with beautiful memories. I spent that time with Karjam's family and never once did I feel an aura of sadness, pain, or grief. Days after they've lost the family patriarch, and no grief. There is a lot we can learn from that.
* Below, yet more momo are prepared for yet more guests.
By the end Apa Lorae was in a lot of pain, and very weak, only able to take a few spoonfuls of broth or milk. He had to ask someone to shift his body every twenty minutes or so, and according to Karjam, not everyone was able to do it to his satisfaction, so in those last weeks Karjam was by his side, especially all night long, as Apa Lorae only slept a few minutes at a time, to help him. He retained his mental acuity until the morning of his death, and Karjam had some very touching stories of the things he said. Although he had been living in a house in the village, when he was preparing to die they moved him to Tubko (his second son)'s winter house in the grasslands-- a house where at night the yaks were tied up, and the sheep gathered close. He spent a lot of time on the glassed-in porch, looking out across the grasslands, and soaking in the sun (the Tibetan sun is very very bright and if you're protected from the wind, such as on a glassed-in porch, even with single pane glass, during the day you'll stay quite warm in the sun). As had been his lifelong habit he was able to continue fingering his prayer beads, and spinning a hand-held prayer wheel. Monks also came and visited and chanted with him, a lama placing his hand on Apa Lorae's head and chanting-- in other words he prepared well for his death. The day before his death it was one of those gorgeous mornings where temperature inversion causes a fog to lift off the land and swirl in the sun, making the landscape magical. Karjam told his dad how it looked, and his dad told him "dear one, you must take a photo." This touched Karjam very deeply, because he felt that even as he was too weak to move on his own, his father was thinking outside his own reality (he's never used a camera in his life), and placing himself within Karjam's world and the things that were of importance to Karjam.
On the morning of his death Karjam saw a sudden change in him, physically, and was able to call together most of the family to be there as he took his last breaths (there was a little less than an hour between when they called everyone and the actual passing). At this point he no longer appeared to be mentally engaged with his surroundings, but the family held him and Tubko chanted the long form of the mantra for Tara very loudly, telling Apa Lorae to hold on to the sound of his voice. Karjam was very complimentary about how perfectly his brother did this-- the exact words someone should have in their ears as they pass to the next realm. Contrast that with wailing and crying and you have a very powerful image, just in that moment.
After someone dies there are 49 days during which they have not yet moved onto their next life, and during those days the business of their life needs to be settled (as well as all the funeral processes taken care of). The first 21 days are the most important of those days. I arrived in Ahwencang on the 20th day, so I missed most of this.
The body (after death) could not be touched by any of Apa Lorae's children, because symbolically this is equated with having killed your father. Two people were selected to take care of this process, one of whom was chosen by Apa Lorae himself, Dorsey (son of Zhyibuk, Apa Lorae's first son). Dorsey is full of failings, and I am so mad at him on some levels (as are others in the family), but he had a very close bond with Apa Lorae and his heart is very good. He and another relative prepared the body (and later they had to be specially spiritually cleansed). Karjam described how Dorsey was extremely protective of Apa Lorae's body, making sure that something that might hurt a live person did not happen to him in death (protecting from bumps in the road when they drove the body to Xiahe to be cremated, for example). They did decide to cremate the body, a decision that Apa Lorae made with them, because even though Tubko's house is on the land with the sky burial site in Ahwencang, unlike other areas of Tibet there is no special person who is a "body breaker" to prepare the body to be eaten by vultures, instead in Ahwencang family members (but not children) take this job. It's emotionally not easy. Karjam's family, relatively modern, opted for cremation and spreading his ashes at a lot of sites, including the sky burial site in Ahwencang, where they also ritually erected a prayer flag offering for Apa Lorae (around the 10th day, I'm not exactly sure). That prayer flag offering is the closest thing to a headstone he will have.
According to everyone Ama Dunmajhet cried once after Apa Lorae's death, when something that one visitor said really struck home for her. A large number of people who felt the need continually visit the house (especially during the first 21 days) after the death to offer their support to the family, and express their love of the deceased. It's very bad form if certain people do not visit, certainly the family is not left alone, nor do people just bring a casserole and then quickly leave after an awkward and strained silence. The family is constantly entertaining for those 21 days. People may speak of how great the deceased was, and the deceased can be the topic of conversation, or not.
Although people don't bring casseroles, they can support the family by bringing meat (carcasses, or parts of carcasses) because during the YEAR after his death the family cannot kill or sell any of their animals. They can buy meat, and eat meat, but they cannot kill. This, of course, is quite inconvenient when you have to provide meat for all the guests that keep coming, and all the monks performing different ceremonies (such as that already described on this blog). I was rather fascinated with the no-kill idea, and kept trying to figure out who it extended to. It's a bit of a grey area. Definitely all the households of all Apa Lorae's children (that's 8 households) and the grandchildren who have lived with him (none of those have independent households yet) are included, but whether or not other grandchildren (many of whom do have independent households) are included is less defined. I never asked if his sister's household (he only had one sibling, Jabu's mother) would also be on the no-kill list. I also wondered what happened if then another family member died before one year was up. Would a nomad family with an increasingly large herd be prevented from killing or selling (that's their source of income) any animals for two years? [This is a tangent, sorry.]
After someone dies a special monk (not a lama), who has extensive training will determine what sort of life they've lived and what sort of ceremonies and chants are needed to atone for any problems with their life to help prepare them for a good rebirth. I kept trying to push Karjam to give me more information about how this monk would know-- "do they ask the family if he lived a good life?" but what Karjam knew was that the monk was able to calculate this based on spiritual powers, more or less. Apparently no one ever thinks this has been done "wrong." In the case of someone like Apa Lorae, well known for being generous and unconcerned with material wealth (he never learned to tell one piece of money from another), as well as an extremely ardent Buddhist (taking pilgrimages, circumambulating the temple, chanting constantly), the various ceremonies the monks needed to do were relatively "easy" -- the types of things that many monks are authorized to do (not more advanced and specialized ceremonies). A neighbor died while I was in Ahwencang and Karjam said he heard that family was having a really hard time because the ceremonies they needed monks to do were very hard to find monks for, often needing lamas to lead them, and that was expensive and difficult to organize, and the family was scrambling to get it all done during the 21 days (and might not be able to).
I think that being so busy dealing with guests and ceremonies helps to keep the family from dwelling on loss in a bad way. Western death needs more ceremony! It needs more acknowledgement. Don't just send that family home from the funeral to dwell and fester on what they forgot to say or do during the departed's lifetime! Also Apa Lorae meant to finish certain Buddhist tasks (spinning a certain prayer wheel at the temple X number of times, or circumambulating a certain prayer hall at another temple X number of times, or doing X number of prostrations at X site) and didn't, so these tasks were taken by the family to be finished during the 49 days, as a sort of last gift to Apa Lorae, they were doing these instead of him to help him acquire even more merit for his rebirth. I feel like these actions helped in the mourning process, too. Especially Tubko's children were very active with this (Tubko's family is the family line, the family that has taken over Apa Lorae's herd, etc. and that he's lived with). Having something to do for the dead after they've left is another really good thing the Tibetans have that Western culture doesn't. I do 108 prostrations a day for Apa Lorae. This is not a lot, per se, but it has been tough at times (when I'm sick, when I'm on the road). The prostrations allow me to think on Apa Lorae and actively and intently visualize his wonderful rebirth. Apa Lorae was one of the best people I've ever met, and so close to attaining enlightenment, so just perfectly good, so I've been hoping that in his next life he has the opportunity to really focus on spiritual cultivation.
Final point I want to make, since I've been writing this when I need to get work done now that I'm back in Korea, is that the family is fine. They're still happy. They lost Apa Lorae, but at his age (first half of his 70s), and due to the time to prepare after the diagnosis, they accept it as natural (when first diagnosed Karjam was really upset, because he felt he'd screwed up by not getting his father fully checked in order to detect something in advance). For them death is a serious thing, with ritual and rules that will govern their lives for the next year, but life goes on, not as some tear-soaked tragedy, but with beautiful memories. I spent that time with Karjam's family and never once did I feel an aura of sadness, pain, or grief. Days after they've lost the family patriarch, and no grief. There is a lot we can learn from that.
* Below, yet more momo are prepared for yet more guests.
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| Ahyangtso |
Friday, December 6, 2013
My Father-in-Law
Today my father-in-law, Lorae, passed away. He was a wonderful man, always calm and patient, and accepting of me and my foreignness. I shared wonderful times with him, such as on our pilgrimage to Lhasa, Nepal and India.
He passed away in pain due to advanced cancer, but surrounded by his family, at home, and after religiously preparing himself to go. I am trying not to be too sad about not getting to see him one last time, because it's not about me. I will prostrate 108 times a day through the 49 day period, in prayers for the even better rebirth he deserves. He had seen too many hard times in this life, but still stayed strong and positive, and was a wonderful example to me.
I love you Apa Lorae, and I always will.
[I will post a photo later, apparently blogger has a bug right now and I cannot upload a photo]
He passed away in pain due to advanced cancer, but surrounded by his family, at home, and after religiously preparing himself to go. I am trying not to be too sad about not getting to see him one last time, because it's not about me. I will prostrate 108 times a day through the 49 day period, in prayers for the even better rebirth he deserves. He had seen too many hard times in this life, but still stayed strong and positive, and was a wonderful example to me.
I love you Apa Lorae, and I always will.
[I will post a photo later, apparently blogger has a bug right now and I cannot upload a photo]
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Korea and Death
This is a very brief account, and reflects my limited experience. If I learn more anytime soon I'll come back to edit this post.
My friend Son Byeongman died at the end of last week. We're the same age. I met Son in 2005 through Bongsan Talchum, where he became an isuja not long after I'd first met him. He was extremely dedicated, very serious about mask dance drama and the Korean arts, a graduate of the Korean National University of the Arts (K-Arts), and a full time performer. Everyone knew the story about Son-- that he'd gotten an amazing job at the most prestigious Korean company after graduating college, and then had realized that he didn't want to be a cog in the Korean corporate machine. He quit and went back to college, studying mask dance drama and devoting his life to the performing arts. Since most Korean performers either were tracked into performing arts from an early age, or were not academically gifted/dedicated enough to get a job with a major company, everyone was very impressed by Son's story.
I liked Son Byeongman most because when I would interview him (and he was someone I interviewed repeatedly) he was completely forthright and not afraid to say things that other people hedged around, hinting at the issue but not wanting to seem so critical. Son was willing to say it like it was, and I loved that. Interviews with him were very helpful. He had a reputation as a "무서운 선생님" or scary teacher. He got this reputation because he was so dedicated to his student's success (he often trained students who were auditioning for entry to K-Arts). Although they called him scary (I even saw someone cry once), they loved him for trying so hard, and everyone I know who was trained by him was accepted.
He was in a three man group called Cheonha Jeil Tal with my little brother Heo Changyeol and another man I don't know as well. I wrote about this group for my first published article.
He died. How and why are a bit vague, it seems that he collapsed (no evidence of slipping on a wet floor or anything like that) while home alone. He was discovered 2-3 days after when his students got worried that he wasn't answering his phone. He had never been particularly robust, in fact he was very thin and weak, but even Changyeol did not know if he was actually diagnosed with any particular illness. He may have known and not wanted to burden others. He may have just figured that in our early 40s we don't need to worry that much. When I saw him in July he seemed thinner than usual, but no less energetic-- Son was driven from within by the force of his will.
After I found Son had died, I talked to Changyeol-- everyone had gathered at the funeral home.
In general one spends three days (two nights) in a funeral home (not in the same room as the body), grieving, praying, and saying good-bye. Friends and relatives stop by the funeral home (located within the grounds of a hospital) at any time and they stay as long as they want, depending on their feeling of closeness to the deceased. Changyeol spent the night. So did some of Son's former students.
I arrived at the funeral home, the entrance way lined with giant displays of white chrysanthemums with ribbons proclaiming the giver's name or organization. Son was having a low-key affair as his mother (and father?), grandparents, and siblings were all still alive-- larger and more elaborate ceremonies are held when the younger generation remains but a member of the older generation has passed on. One room was dedicated to Son. Inside there was an altar with his photo, his name, fruit, incense, and candles. Visitors came in, and slipped money into an envelope at the door (I gave 50,000 won, if I was closer it would have been more). The visitor's name (not Son's name and nothing else, no message of condolence) was written on the envelope and each visitor signed the guestbook (with their name and perhaps organization, but no message). Then they proceeded to the altar, and bowed (big bows, head touching the floor) two times (not more, not less, two is for the dead) to Son, followed by a bow from the waist. As I bowed two men were at the side of the mat/altar area. I believe this was a brother and maybe an uncle, or maybe his father. After I bowed to Son I should have bowed deeply to them once, then from my waist once. However, I messed this up and only bowed from the waist. I was unsure of the protocol, but watching the only other new guest who arrived after me I felt pretty embarrassed. Still, I presume they were not offended because I had come all the way to be there, and obviously I am not Korean.
After I bowed I was ushered to a table (a low table, so I was sitting on the floor). Interestingly the funeral home staff member was a woman I know, as well, she is also a performer of Bongsan Talchum. Since she had an official uniform and name tag, I think she is actually a regular employee, and this probably explains why he was taken to that funeral home, instead of another. She offered me drinks and fruit, and we talked for a few minutes. About fifteen family members were occupying the back corner of the room, many of them half asleep, none approached me, and I didn't know if I should approach and talk to any of them. The male blood relatives were all wearing hemp arm band stripes on their sleeves. Most of the men had double stripes. I think that a single stripe would be reserved for a son, and three for a grandson, but I might have that wrong. I'd spend more time researching that but I really have other stuff to do besides writing blogs!
While I was having my drink and wondering what I should be doing, Changyeol came into the room looking very sleepy. He'd been napping next door. We talked for a bit, and other people and friends also filed in and out, although they did not bow because they had already done that when they first arrived. Many were there because they were waiting to carry Son's body (or ashes?) out, formally, at noon when the three days would be over. Changyeol and some others ate instant noodles, kimchi, and rice, in the hushed atmosphere of the hall. Although funerals can be quite loud, full of screaming and crying, on the last day everyone seemed quite exhausted. Until an older couple arrived. The elderly woman, probably in her 70s, came to the altar with some large photos of Son performing, and after she bowed, she yelled at him, shaking a photo and crying. "See, here you are. Doing what you love. You have more performances to do, why did you leave so soon?" she wailed. Her husband tried to calm her. After forty minutes in the hushed environment I bowed and left, retracing my nearly three hour route back home.
I wish I had read this before going to the funeral, this is a very thorough blog entry on Seoul Site.
Here is a blog post I wrote in about 2000 or 2001 about another funeral I went to with some photos.
My friend Son Byeongman died at the end of last week. We're the same age. I met Son in 2005 through Bongsan Talchum, where he became an isuja not long after I'd first met him. He was extremely dedicated, very serious about mask dance drama and the Korean arts, a graduate of the Korean National University of the Arts (K-Arts), and a full time performer. Everyone knew the story about Son-- that he'd gotten an amazing job at the most prestigious Korean company after graduating college, and then had realized that he didn't want to be a cog in the Korean corporate machine. He quit and went back to college, studying mask dance drama and devoting his life to the performing arts. Since most Korean performers either were tracked into performing arts from an early age, or were not academically gifted/dedicated enough to get a job with a major company, everyone was very impressed by Son's story.
I liked Son Byeongman most because when I would interview him (and he was someone I interviewed repeatedly) he was completely forthright and not afraid to say things that other people hedged around, hinting at the issue but not wanting to seem so critical. Son was willing to say it like it was, and I loved that. Interviews with him were very helpful. He had a reputation as a "무서운 선생님" or scary teacher. He got this reputation because he was so dedicated to his student's success (he often trained students who were auditioning for entry to K-Arts). Although they called him scary (I even saw someone cry once), they loved him for trying so hard, and everyone I know who was trained by him was accepted.
He was in a three man group called Cheonha Jeil Tal with my little brother Heo Changyeol and another man I don't know as well. I wrote about this group for my first published article.
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| Son Byeongman performing with Cheonha Jeil Tal |
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| After a performance by Cheonha Jeil Tal. Son Byeongman is seated in the center. |
He died. How and why are a bit vague, it seems that he collapsed (no evidence of slipping on a wet floor or anything like that) while home alone. He was discovered 2-3 days after when his students got worried that he wasn't answering his phone. He had never been particularly robust, in fact he was very thin and weak, but even Changyeol did not know if he was actually diagnosed with any particular illness. He may have known and not wanted to burden others. He may have just figured that in our early 40s we don't need to worry that much. When I saw him in July he seemed thinner than usual, but no less energetic-- Son was driven from within by the force of his will.
After I found Son had died, I talked to Changyeol-- everyone had gathered at the funeral home.
In general one spends three days (two nights) in a funeral home (not in the same room as the body), grieving, praying, and saying good-bye. Friends and relatives stop by the funeral home (located within the grounds of a hospital) at any time and they stay as long as they want, depending on their feeling of closeness to the deceased. Changyeol spent the night. So did some of Son's former students.
I arrived at the funeral home, the entrance way lined with giant displays of white chrysanthemums with ribbons proclaiming the giver's name or organization. Son was having a low-key affair as his mother (and father?), grandparents, and siblings were all still alive-- larger and more elaborate ceremonies are held when the younger generation remains but a member of the older generation has passed on. One room was dedicated to Son. Inside there was an altar with his photo, his name, fruit, incense, and candles. Visitors came in, and slipped money into an envelope at the door (I gave 50,000 won, if I was closer it would have been more). The visitor's name (not Son's name and nothing else, no message of condolence) was written on the envelope and each visitor signed the guestbook (with their name and perhaps organization, but no message). Then they proceeded to the altar, and bowed (big bows, head touching the floor) two times (not more, not less, two is for the dead) to Son, followed by a bow from the waist. As I bowed two men were at the side of the mat/altar area. I believe this was a brother and maybe an uncle, or maybe his father. After I bowed to Son I should have bowed deeply to them once, then from my waist once. However, I messed this up and only bowed from the waist. I was unsure of the protocol, but watching the only other new guest who arrived after me I felt pretty embarrassed. Still, I presume they were not offended because I had come all the way to be there, and obviously I am not Korean.
After I bowed I was ushered to a table (a low table, so I was sitting on the floor). Interestingly the funeral home staff member was a woman I know, as well, she is also a performer of Bongsan Talchum. Since she had an official uniform and name tag, I think she is actually a regular employee, and this probably explains why he was taken to that funeral home, instead of another. She offered me drinks and fruit, and we talked for a few minutes. About fifteen family members were occupying the back corner of the room, many of them half asleep, none approached me, and I didn't know if I should approach and talk to any of them. The male blood relatives were all wearing hemp arm band stripes on their sleeves. Most of the men had double stripes. I think that a single stripe would be reserved for a son, and three for a grandson, but I might have that wrong. I'd spend more time researching that but I really have other stuff to do besides writing blogs!
While I was having my drink and wondering what I should be doing, Changyeol came into the room looking very sleepy. He'd been napping next door. We talked for a bit, and other people and friends also filed in and out, although they did not bow because they had already done that when they first arrived. Many were there because they were waiting to carry Son's body (or ashes?) out, formally, at noon when the three days would be over. Changyeol and some others ate instant noodles, kimchi, and rice, in the hushed atmosphere of the hall. Although funerals can be quite loud, full of screaming and crying, on the last day everyone seemed quite exhausted. Until an older couple arrived. The elderly woman, probably in her 70s, came to the altar with some large photos of Son performing, and after she bowed, she yelled at him, shaking a photo and crying. "See, here you are. Doing what you love. You have more performances to do, why did you leave so soon?" she wailed. Her husband tried to calm her. After forty minutes in the hushed environment I bowed and left, retracing my nearly three hour route back home.
I wish I had read this before going to the funeral, this is a very thorough blog entry on Seoul Site.
Here is a blog post I wrote in about 2000 or 2001 about another funeral I went to with some photos.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Losing People
The past few months I've thought a lot about death and losing people.
My high school boyfriend died in late July. Probably anyone reading this can agree, when we lose someone the first feeling is often of regret. I regretted how little time I'd spent with Tom in recent years. I knew he'd been unwell, but partially because he was unwell it had formed this barrier to me visiting him-- even though I'd been on Lopez-- living nearby. I knew where he lived. If I could find time to play with the goats almost everyday I could surely have visited Tom. I can make excuses-- like how hard it is to see someone you mentally picture as handsome and young and vibrant in a reduced state. I could talk about the guilt that Tom had helped me, as an overly sensitive, dramatic, intelligent teen through a very difficult part of my life, and that after I left Tom (and Lopez) he had lived a difficult life, while I had earned my education, traveled the world, and felt (despite my fairly empty bank account) pleased with my life. When I had seen Tom since leaving Lopez (only a handful of times after the first couple of years), I had always felt that feeling of "what if..." or "if only..." and wondered if I should help him, somehow. I visited him in 1996 or 1997 (either right before leaving for Korea, or after my first year in Korea) and he was already physically ailing. I tried to smile and laugh with him, but it was breaking my heart that he was easily thirty pounds under a healthy weight (and he'd always been skinny), his skin dull, his energy level low.
I next saw him in 2010. At that time he was almost housebound, his body rejecting most foods, and his energy level too low to prepare the sort of foods he should have been eating. He was no longer able to move around easily, and in the conversation we had his bitterness was palpable. I wanted to do something, but what could I do? What Tom needed was someone to be with him and love him and help him as his body grew increasingly intractable, but I was not free to be that person. I only saw him once after that, in the parking lot of the gas station, where we exchanged a few words. We kept in contact, irregularly, on Facebook. Below is the last interaction we ever had, on a scanned page from an old photo album. I am so glad it was positive, and I really hope Tom saw my reply. He died less than a month later.
Tom's family and close friends decided to hold a memorial in October, and I knew I'd be here in Korea. All I could manage to do as I sprinted around the West Coast in August preparing to move was to unearth several sets of negatives from old rolls of print film. I wanted to create a sort of photographic offering that could be displayed at the memorial. I wanted others, many of whom had seen Tom much more regularly in the months and years leading up to his passing, to remember him as I still see him in my mind's eye-- as a handsome, charming man.
Of all of the relationships I have had in my life, or at least all the relationships that lasted more than a few weeks, Tom was by far the kindest and most tolerant. I was young and very willful and he was a few years older, in his early twenties, but due to the low population of young people on the island, he ended up dating me, his first cousin's age-mate and close friend. I was not an easy girlfriend. Although I didn't ask Tom to spend money on me, I was learning how to be in an emotional relationship with a man, and can remember being pretty awful. He was never awful back. He was faithful. Patient. Understanding. Loving. He loved me consistently, gently, forgivingly. My high school friends (not the friends like me who were bound for college, but the many other friends I had) would ask me if I was going to marry Tom. Or ask what I would do if I got pregnant. Tom's grandmother, Bee, who saw me often (as Tom was living with her and helping her construct her home), told me to leave him, get off the island, and get an education. I took her advice. I didn't marry Tom, in fact we broke up before I left for that tumultuous first year in college.
I've lost other people. In August, in mom's attic, I tried to repack my many stored boxes. Most of the things in the boxes could be described as "paper." Programs for shows, newspaper clippings, essays I've written, letters I've received. There are some other things-- a set of glasses, nice candlestick holder, my hiking stuff-- but most of it's paper. I tried to sort and throw away unnecessary paper (old issues of magazines, materials for reports, bank statements from the 1990s), but as I was doing this I was confronted by letters and photos from people who are now gone. Tom had just died. Two of the other significant men I've loved have also died. And back in the day we usually got duplicates of all our photos. One set is in an album, the other set is just running around--sometimes it makes its way to the people in the photos, but often not. Former co-workers, dead. Former lovers, dead. Former friends, dead. Letters and cards from my deceased aunt, deceased grandfathers, deceased grandmothers, a few treasured blurry snapshots of me and my uncle, the coolest uncle ever, an early casualty of the AIDS epidemic. I sat in the attic, and tried to quickly cull through boxes, but then I'd find a photo of Jesse on the beach on MDI and want to cry because he died on the morning of his own wedding in a car accident. Or see Kurt, goofy goofy grin on his face, and wonder if I should try to find his ex-wife and send them for his son to have. And then I found the corsage Tom gave me when he took me to junior prom.
Now we are facing losing someone else, Karjam's father, who has been diagnosed with advanced stomach and liver cancer (or one type that has moved to the other location as well, since we're not in China, we have not been able to ask these questions). We don't know if Karjam has months to get to China, or days, at any rate, his plans to leave Lopez, pass through Korea and get to China have all been moved up.
My high school boyfriend died in late July. Probably anyone reading this can agree, when we lose someone the first feeling is often of regret. I regretted how little time I'd spent with Tom in recent years. I knew he'd been unwell, but partially because he was unwell it had formed this barrier to me visiting him-- even though I'd been on Lopez-- living nearby. I knew where he lived. If I could find time to play with the goats almost everyday I could surely have visited Tom. I can make excuses-- like how hard it is to see someone you mentally picture as handsome and young and vibrant in a reduced state. I could talk about the guilt that Tom had helped me, as an overly sensitive, dramatic, intelligent teen through a very difficult part of my life, and that after I left Tom (and Lopez) he had lived a difficult life, while I had earned my education, traveled the world, and felt (despite my fairly empty bank account) pleased with my life. When I had seen Tom since leaving Lopez (only a handful of times after the first couple of years), I had always felt that feeling of "what if..." or "if only..." and wondered if I should help him, somehow. I visited him in 1996 or 1997 (either right before leaving for Korea, or after my first year in Korea) and he was already physically ailing. I tried to smile and laugh with him, but it was breaking my heart that he was easily thirty pounds under a healthy weight (and he'd always been skinny), his skin dull, his energy level low.
I next saw him in 2010. At that time he was almost housebound, his body rejecting most foods, and his energy level too low to prepare the sort of foods he should have been eating. He was no longer able to move around easily, and in the conversation we had his bitterness was palpable. I wanted to do something, but what could I do? What Tom needed was someone to be with him and love him and help him as his body grew increasingly intractable, but I was not free to be that person. I only saw him once after that, in the parking lot of the gas station, where we exchanged a few words. We kept in contact, irregularly, on Facebook. Below is the last interaction we ever had, on a scanned page from an old photo album. I am so glad it was positive, and I really hope Tom saw my reply. He died less than a month later.
Tom's family and close friends decided to hold a memorial in October, and I knew I'd be here in Korea. All I could manage to do as I sprinted around the West Coast in August preparing to move was to unearth several sets of negatives from old rolls of print film. I wanted to create a sort of photographic offering that could be displayed at the memorial. I wanted others, many of whom had seen Tom much more regularly in the months and years leading up to his passing, to remember him as I still see him in my mind's eye-- as a handsome, charming man.
Of all of the relationships I have had in my life, or at least all the relationships that lasted more than a few weeks, Tom was by far the kindest and most tolerant. I was young and very willful and he was a few years older, in his early twenties, but due to the low population of young people on the island, he ended up dating me, his first cousin's age-mate and close friend. I was not an easy girlfriend. Although I didn't ask Tom to spend money on me, I was learning how to be in an emotional relationship with a man, and can remember being pretty awful. He was never awful back. He was faithful. Patient. Understanding. Loving. He loved me consistently, gently, forgivingly. My high school friends (not the friends like me who were bound for college, but the many other friends I had) would ask me if I was going to marry Tom. Or ask what I would do if I got pregnant. Tom's grandmother, Bee, who saw me often (as Tom was living with her and helping her construct her home), told me to leave him, get off the island, and get an education. I took her advice. I didn't marry Tom, in fact we broke up before I left for that tumultuous first year in college.
I've lost other people. In August, in mom's attic, I tried to repack my many stored boxes. Most of the things in the boxes could be described as "paper." Programs for shows, newspaper clippings, essays I've written, letters I've received. There are some other things-- a set of glasses, nice candlestick holder, my hiking stuff-- but most of it's paper. I tried to sort and throw away unnecessary paper (old issues of magazines, materials for reports, bank statements from the 1990s), but as I was doing this I was confronted by letters and photos from people who are now gone. Tom had just died. Two of the other significant men I've loved have also died. And back in the day we usually got duplicates of all our photos. One set is in an album, the other set is just running around--sometimes it makes its way to the people in the photos, but often not. Former co-workers, dead. Former lovers, dead. Former friends, dead. Letters and cards from my deceased aunt, deceased grandfathers, deceased grandmothers, a few treasured blurry snapshots of me and my uncle, the coolest uncle ever, an early casualty of the AIDS epidemic. I sat in the attic, and tried to quickly cull through boxes, but then I'd find a photo of Jesse on the beach on MDI and want to cry because he died on the morning of his own wedding in a car accident. Or see Kurt, goofy goofy grin on his face, and wonder if I should try to find his ex-wife and send them for his son to have. And then I found the corsage Tom gave me when he took me to junior prom.
 |
| Dress by Edi Blomberg. Photo probably by Gregg Blomberg. |
Now we are facing losing someone else, Karjam's father, who has been diagnosed with advanced stomach and liver cancer (or one type that has moved to the other location as well, since we're not in China, we have not been able to ask these questions). We don't know if Karjam has months to get to China, or days, at any rate, his plans to leave Lopez, pass through Korea and get to China have all been moved up.
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