As
I stared at the pristine and well-kept body of my Uncle David in his casket, my
blank face belied how much I hated him at the time. I had not known who my
Uncle David was, until my parents had informed me, my father holding back his
tears as best he could, about his untimely passing due to a heart condition. He
was my fathers younger brother, and yet I didn’t feel anything. I understood
the reality of death perfectly, and I knew just how badly it effected people
and how ones expected to act towards such news, but an eight year old hardly
has the capacity to truly mourn a family member they’ve never met. As cruel as
it may have looked from an outside perspective, I took the news that we would
be attending his funeral at the Woodley family home in Shreveport with
displeasure and annoyance.
“Why
should I have to leave home for somebody I don’t even know?” Those were my
unspoken thoughts as my mother and I packed my bags for the trip. I knew the
answer was simple, “He was family, we
have to go” but I never thought of nor knew him as family. In my mind, my
family consisted of my mom, my dad, my sister, and our housekeeper and that’s
all I needed. I barely had any relationship with my extended family, with our
trips to Shreveport to see the rest of the Woodley family being rare and I
couldn’t really remember any of my Uncles, Aunts, or Cousin’s.
My
father worked at the time worked for Nestle and was often traveling, so I was
unused to him being around the house very much but was quite used to making the
most out of the time he was home. I always wanted us to play together,
experience things together, and just have time together as father and son in
such a way that it was like he’d never been gone at all. And while after my
Uncles’ death he was home for more than usual, he never had any time for me. On
some days he’d just be in his room all day working or sleeping and I was
explicitly told not to go in. Other days he’d be on the phone, talking to
family members of various names and I was left staring at him longingly,
waiting for a turn that never came. I barely had time with my dad anyway, and
now it felt like he was being taken away by my Uncle, this person I had never
met.
As
I often did, I brought my concerns to my mother, who could only reply, matter
of factly, that “Uncle David was really important to Daddy.” But wasn’t I
important? Wasn’t spending time with me, making up for all those weeks he was
gone, also as vitally important? When
you’re a kid, at least in my case, you can feel so self-righteous and indignant
towards things, believing you have the right to be the most important thing in
the universe that you can’t stand to see things otherwise. As innocent as
children can be, they can be just as rotten if pushed a certain way or if they’re
not given what they want or demand.
And
before I knew it, we were at the airport waiting for our plane to be ready.
Excited kids bounced around in their seats, some running around while their
parents chided them, adults sitting patiently as adults tend to do, and I was
simply sitting at our seat staring blankly at my father next to me. He had been
wearing the same expression for weeks, but only now could I truly describe it.
It was a face that conveyed loss, that a part of his whole as a person had been
forcibly ripped from him well before he was ready to part with it, and the life
moving forward around him just seemed empty. I watched him, praying silently
that he’d look in my direction, give me that genuine smile of his and talk to
me like he always has. But he never did.
I
can say for a fact that the airplane ride to Shreveport was the best part of
the entire trip, if only for the fact that I had a new game for my Gameboy and
a Power Rangers playset to keep both my mind entertained and my imagination
flowing. But even the toys and games couldn’t stray my mind away from the issue
that had plagued me for far too long, and I hoped in earnest that things would
get better when we arrived and settled down in Shreveport. But it didn’t. My
father continued to ignore me in favor of his brothers and sisters, whose names
and faces became jumbled up as I kept being introduced to them. Anita, Joe,
Paul, Beau… they were all just names that came in one ear and instantly out the
other in quick succession. I didn’t care for this onset of family members one
after another, nor did I care for the cousins who formed their own cliques and
left me behind. All I wanted was for my father to look at me, and spend that
quality father/son time with me that a father is supposed to do.
With
repeated denials of my desires and it appearing as though it would surely
continue, I acted in the natural way for a eight-year old: I threw tantrums for
attention. Well, a tantrum might be a misnomer for the stuff I pulled off at
Shreveport, because at that age I could be very destructive when angered. I felt like I was in a competition for my
dad’s affection against people who could somehow gain his attention at the
slightest word, whether it be my extended family making small talk or just the
mere mention of my Uncle David, and so I acted in such a way that I knew he’d
pay attention to me. I deliberately appeared to be in a bad mood, mouths blown
up to such a degree that a pufferfish would find it commendable, as mute as
those Blue-Men group fellows who I’d seen commercials of, and adding a
distinct hint of rage to my voice
to convey to others that I was not someone to be approached. But my parents
knew what I really wanted, that all I really needed was for someone to listen
to me and give me affection and I’d be back to my normal self in no time.
But
it didn’t work; at least not on the only person I wanted it to effect. My
father continued with his daily routine of speaking to his brothers and
sisters, likely discussing past memories of Uncle David that I gave little care
to. Laughing one second and holding back tears in the next, their reminiscing
contained an aspect of joy that I had lost in recent days. My mother paid
attention to me of course, but she couldn’t provide the fatherly attention I
wanted and merely provided numerous unsatisfying reasons as to why my father
was busy. And so I continued being a brat, a cold, angry, and uninspired brat,
and I believe karma answered in kind. The trip took a major turn for the worse
as I received numerous injuries, from sprains, to accidentally falling off a
high clubhouse, and even being assaulted by a chicken. It was as if god were
trying to punish me for my outburst in such a time of mourning and yet it did
not stop me. I only began to feel even more hatred towards the person who had
posthumously caused all of this to happen: my Uncle David.
In
retrospect, a boy who had never truly suffered a major familial loss could
never have understood what his father, or his extended family was going through.
I had always had my sister, my housekeeper, and my two parents close by so
despite understanding death, I had never felt the pain of it. I had been sad
about losing things sure, but it was always for material and trivial objects.
Maybe in some regards my father was more human than I was at that age.
And
so came his funeral where I, bitter and aggravated, asked my father if I could
see his body so that I may finally see the face of the person whom I’d come to
hate. My Uncle David didn’t look any different from most men, maybe different
from my father, but he certainly didn’t fit the demonic image my seven year old
mind came up with. That of a horny devil in ridiculous garb of cape and armor,
laughing from some far away location as I suffered for his sake and to his
pleasure. I remained eerily quiet and detached throughout the procession and
the ride to the graveyard, refusing to care anymore about this tribute to the
man who had stolen my father.
I
was then reminded of my Grandmother’s funeral, specifically something said to
me there. I was far, far younger at the time, and was not prepared mentally for
the long and arduous nature of a funeral. I was a boy used to running around in
the grass and actively playing, not long lectures and services by priests. What
I remember distinctly is coming out of the funeral crying because of how
terrible I had felt about sitting around and not being allowed to do anything,
and a priest came up to me and said “I am sorry for your loss” as if he
believed I was crying over my Grandmother. At the time I thought of just how
appropriate the line would be at this funeral, while now I can only feel the
bitter irony stinging at my heart in both instances.
After the main
procession we headed with the Casket to the graveyard. I walked around the
graveyard, passing by grave after grave, sometimes strafing to and thro to
amuse myself, and then I saw my father standing in front of a grave. He took
note of my presence immediately, and looked at me with a sincere and almost
tired smile that I hadn’t seen in quite some time. He asked me how I was and I
answered him, in the same, subtly gruff tone, that I was okay. There were
sounds of birds in the air as well as flowers flying about, and the grass
smelled fresh and nice. My father had finally spoken to me, but it did not feel
like the victory I had craved. I honestly expected the conversation to end
there, but instead my father began talking about my Uncle and what an
experience this had been for him.
“Your Uncle David…
he had a lot of problems, problems he was trying to deal with on his own so no
one would worry. He wanted to be okay for all the people who cared about him,
his family, all his fans… he was a Quaterback for the Miami Dolphins, and he
was really popular. We had to make this a private funeral just so they wouldn’t
all swarm around here. Oh God… I remember David and I running that paper route
together as kids, and how we’d always…always get up early in the morning to do
it. Then we’d practice football together at school and he’d be off to practice
with his team. It was just, just a lot of good times. Your Uncle was a great
person. Do you remember the first time you met him? That time he came over with
Grandma to our house?”
That
specific phrase struck a chord with me. I had actually met him before? “The two
of you really got along. I remember all that time you spent together watching
T.V. and talking in British Accents.” I remembered a point in my history eerily
similar to that, and I recalled it as one of the best and most enjoyable nights
of my life, but the name of the adult I had spent it with remained a blur. My
brain stopped working immediately and shifted all focus to recreating the image
of that man, and as my father was left on the verge of tears, I realized in
horror that the adult and my Uncle David were one in the same. It was an instance
when my Uncle had visited us with my Grandmother, and the time we had spent
together, talking, watching cartoons and speaking to each other in British
accents as if we were members of the Beatles.
My
face left agape by the revelation that two adults, one who I had loved very
much as a child, and one who I had come to hate with unjustified anger, were
the same men. As I continued to stare at the crying face of my father, I
realized just how much of a monster I had been to people completely
undeserving. My Uncle was not the villain of this story, for I had taken the
role myself out of misguided spite. I
had been selfish and cruel to people I loved and a man who I had once immensely
respected. It was in that instance, that very instance, that I wanted to die,
to atone, to never have to see my father and feel the shame of what I’ve done
or worse, risk that he’d look at me with shame.
I
was completely passive on the trip back home, and I silently crawled to my
bedroom carrying a shame unbeknownst to the rest of my family. I lay on my bed
and reflected on my sins and how much all the pain on that trip had been well
deserved. My fathers love and attention were now like the blessings of an angel
that were undeserved to a demon such as myself. I recalled my Uncle David’s
face, his plain, blank face in his deep, deep sleep. How could I repent? How
could I ever make up for what I’ve done?
It
was then that I came to a decision, one to atone for my actions by being a
better person than I had ever been before. Never again would I let my selfish
desires negatively impact another, nor would I let ignorance cause me to make a
terrible mistake. I would always try to be a genuinely good person, even when
it came at a disadvantage to me, and improve on my negative qualities. It was
honestly the type of life-changing wish a kid could make in a second and then
just give up in a week out of fatigue, and even now I’m not sure whether I’ve
really accomplished anything or made up for my mistakes. But I still remember
that funeral, I still remember that face, and I always remember to keep trying
to make up for it.
