Tara HackFestschrift Submission

Hilarity and Tragedy:

The Cultural Performance of Ritualized Entertainment

In Donghai, China, a rural county just 88 kilometers inland

from the Eastern China Sea, a farmer passes away. His family,

enticed by the local tradition yet fearful of the risk they are

about to take, begins to make

funeral plans for their beloved. As

the custom goes, the more mourners a

funeral procession can attract, the

more honor is attributed to the

deceased, and the more luck will be granted to the family. Great

honor is rare for a farmer, and the family could surely use more

luck. Desperate for a crowd, the family calls the troupes,

stripper-troupes. Exotic dancers clutter the colorful altar,

luring onlookers with their obscene performances just as the

family had hoped. Over 200 people attended the farmer’s funeral;

honor and luck will be abundant.

This racy funeral practice is common in the province of

Donghai, although recently it has been made illegal due to

obvious ethical criticism. Yet despite the debated implications

of this peculiar phenomenon, there is a clever charm to the

custom; one that reveals the risks family members would take for

one another, but also one that ironically couples entertainment

with despair, the juxtaposition of humor in a time of sadness.

****

I am naturally drawn to these out-of-the-ordinary stories

and contradictory pairing of experiences not only because I find

them strangely hilarious, but due to my own bizarre family

memorial experience. My dear Aunt Judy passed away on October 4,

2011 after a series of small stroke-like seizures that put her

into a “nonresponsive coma” the doctors said. She had been

celebrating her anniversary.

Aunt Judy was a gambler. In fact, my family had always

suspected she had a secret gambling addiction. It was no surprise

then when my mom and I got the call from her husband. At the end

of a long day of betting in Boomtown, Nevada, and a night of all-

you-can-eat prime rib buffet, Aunt Judy began to seize. “She

probably didn’t want to leave the casino,” I smiled and thought

to myself. She passed away just three days later.

But Aunt Judy was much more than a gambler, she was a

practical joker too, and as we soon found out, she hadn’t had her

last laugh yet.

“I remember, when we were young, I had got some oil on my new

blouse you see, and Judy made me give her the shirt. She took it

in the bathroom and put my shirt in the toilet. She sat down and

started to pee, and she said ‘I heard urine helps stains come

out!’ See, she was a funny person, always

doing stuff like that” my grandmother

shared with me, after Judy had died.

Aunt Judy was the kind of woman that

truly laughed at everything. She had this throaty smoker cackle

that was unmistakable, a roaring laughter that put her whole body

in motion, and a vulgar mouth too. Everything was “God Damn” this

or “Son-of-a-bitch” that, which added a colorful and humorous

tone to each story she told.

She loved telling stories, the same stories, and the family

loved when she told them. “You know your Uncle Jim is a big

chicken, he’s scared of the dark! He won’t even go into the woods

to go to the bathroom by himself when they all go hunting. And we

all know about that one time when he saw the black bear out by

his tent.” We knew the story well. It was about a hunting trip

the men took years ago.

Just as her story would really get going, she would stand up

and do an impersonation of the main character, my Uncle Jim in

this case, scared shitless! “He pissed his pants! And as soon as

they bear moved, he took off running, ‘Daryl, Russ, help me!’”

Just as she would say her punch line, she strategically walked

out of the room, usually to get a glass or water or something

ordinary, wait for us to laugh, then make her appearance again

after we had time to recover.

This was how we bonded, how we showed our love through

laughter and embellished story plots. Se shared about holidays,

camping trips, school, and most of all, embarrassing moments.

Aunt Judy would have loved the story about the Donghai

farmer’s funeral.

****

“Leslie called me that morning and said, ‘I can’t believe

it!’ I told her we could take some of it down. But it wasn’t too

bad, we were sure Judy would have laughed at it” my grandma

explained.

Although Aunt Judy never had the chance to explain her post-

death memorial preferences, my family was sure she would have

wanted her memorial service close to home. Sierra Lakes, a sleepy

mobile home community nestled in the gently rolling hills off

interstate 80 in Rocklin, CA (sounds lovely) had been the place

she called home for as long as I could remember.

October is a gorgeous month in the Sacramento Valley, a time

where the trees burst with vibrant colors, fat pumpkins and lumpy

gourds line suburban driveways, brisk winds carry the sweet scent

of fallen fruits and leaves, and the spirit of the holiday season

begins to unfold. My Aunt loved the holidays. She never missed an

opportunity to fill her home with seasonal crafts, commercial

decorations, or her grandchildren’s art projects.

Leslie arrived early to the

Clubhouse that day, accompanied by her

son Scott. Their job was to be sure

everything was in place for the memorial

service later that afternoon, and this required an early morning

inspection.

To their surprise, giant plastic bins, cardboard boxes

marked by black Sharpies, and heaps of tarped materials lined the

entryway and were stacked high on the floors. What was all this

junk? What was in those boxes? With the memorial service set to

begin in just a few short hours, they quickly marched to the

front desk to inquire about these unwelcome guests.

Although I was not present for their next conversation with

the clubhouse employee, I imagine it went something like this-

they find way to the front desk while discussing their

frustration. A woman, probably named Marge, who has worked there

for at least 30 years, greets them. Marge’s hair is fashioned

into a permanent beehive, held in place by bobby pins and Aqua

Net hair spray, her clip on Halloween earrings dangle from her

ears. Her electric blue eye shadow is uneven on one eye and she

has pink lipstick on her front tooth.

Marge says, “don’t worry dears, it will all be taken of.”

Leslie and Scott reluctantly accept this answer and hurry back

home to dress and gather photographs and other small trinkets

that will create the memorial display.

Hours later, they return to the clubhouse. Here is where the

story, rather the day, gets interesting!

“I can’t believe it!” Leslie said, in complete shock and

horror on the phone with my grandmother.

The entire clubhouse- from the path

that leads to the entryway, to the main

hall, to the small kitchen set back in the

corner where we planned to set up the food-

had been decorated as an elaborate haunted house!

Spider webs lined the handrails and tombstones cluttered the

bushes outside the clubhouse doors, skeletons and cloaked ghouls

swung from the rafters in the entryway, hollowed skulls and human

bones were neatly arranged atop black

cloths inside the main hall, and the

haunted laughs and blood curling screeches

of mechanical witches echoed from all

corners of the room. It was truly unbelievable, a job well done

by Marge and her Halloween helpers!

I imagine that any other “normal” family would have worked

themselves into frenzy at this point. Frantically running around,

making phone calls to personnel while ripping down the exterior

decorations, struggling to stuff them all back into boxes before

the guests arrive. After all, how are family members expected to

gather under a monster mask draped in a bloody sheath to

memorialize a loved one? How will fond memories of Aunt Judy get

retold amidst devilish table décor and random witch cackles?

Any other “normal” family would make the necessary adjustments.

But not my family.

I remember walking up the clubhouse, my left arm wrapped

loosely around my mother’s waist in condolence and my right arm

locked with my brother’s, who was carrying an oven bag of fried

chicken. I’ll get to that later. We all started to laugh as soon

as we realized what going on. We hadn’t been properly warned.

“This is amazing!” my mom said.

“Oh my God, really? This is hilarious” I replied.

Two of my cousins were outside, getting in a quick smoke

before the memorial service began. I don’t smoke, but I wanted a

cigarette too. I knew this day was about to get interesting.

As I kept my distance from the hanging vampire and creepy

toy rats, I couldn’t help but wonder- did Aunt Judy know about

this? What would she say? Was this another one of her practical

jokes?

****

It’s 13 A.D., and a small group of elderly men set out in

search of fallen logs. They travel in an area called “Sagada,” a

remote mountain province in the Philippine Islands. The men know

the will eventually inhabit these logs in an eternal slumber, so

size matters. They carefully choose among the tumbled pines,

searching for the perfect one, then help each other carry their

heavy loads back to the village.

In the following months, the men hollow the logs, and slowly

carve them into life-sized chests. These will be their coffins,

each man creating his own.

Once deceased, the corpses are smoked and wrapped, a

tradition that the Segadan people have been practicing for

generations to preserve the bodies of their ancestors. Their

delicate charred bodies are then tucked inside the tight spaces

of their wooden masterpieces, where “the cracking and even

breaking of bones often occurs as the process is completed.” What

happens next, and how it happens, no

one knows for sure.

The coffins are hung high over

the massive limestone cliff sides,

perhaps by ropes that lowered the coffins, or by scaffolds where

they were raised and fastened to the cliff side in vertical rows.

Historians believe this bizarre display, known to modern tourists

as “hanging coffins,” resembles the belief that the “higher” a

body is placed, the closer it is to heaven. Yet this is only

speculation.

Despite their origin or purpose, hanging corpses have been

displayed in civilized communities and ritualized in funerary

fashions for centuries. So, perhaps my family’s vampire-ish

memorial service is not as outlandish as I had thought.

Aunt Judy would have loved the story of the Segadan Hanging

Coffins.

****

There was reason my brother had a bag full of fried

chicken tucked under arm. It was the same reason that my Uncle

Jim brought three bags of potato chips, that my grandmother

brought fried zucchini and spinach dip, and that other family

members and memorial guests brought pigs-in-a-blanket, doughnuts,

jalapeño poppers or other deep fried goods. It was all required

for our feast.

“Your Aunt would have loved this food!” I remember someone

saying.

“She would have wanted it this way!” Someone else said.

I remember thinking it was incredibly ironic that we were

all eating cholesterol filled, artery clogging food when my Aunt

had just suffered a massive stroke from a semi-clogged artery

that had put her into a coma. I am sure she would have loved the

food, and that was precisely the problem.

“We went for a fried theme, all of Judy’s favorite foods!”

one of my cousins said with a fair share of sarcasm, dipping a

mini-corn dog into ketchup and pointing it at me as if to let me

in on some master scheme.

I watched as my family members crammed their Chinet paper

plates with fatty homemade macaroni-and-cheese (my Aunt’s true

favorite and her “famous” dish), handfuls of Ruffles potato chips

smeared with various sour cream dips, and load piles of powdered

sugar dusted brownie bites atop extra crispy Kentucky Fried

Chicken thighs. It truly was a feast.

Each guest carried an overstuffed tribute plate as we walked

along the long, narrow tables placed at both the center and head

of the room. There, Leslie had arranged framed pictures of Aunt

Judy next to fresh flowerpots, collages, and poems she had either

written or found to hold sentimental value. The guests would lap

the displays, mostly in pairs, then regroup at the buffet to see

if any more food had been added.

Again, I thought of Aunt Judy. Would she really want us to

eat like this, knowing full well that each forkful of potato

salad would bring us one step closer to her, literally?

****

Along the Trobriand Islands, scattered in the sea of Papua

New Guinea, the burial ceremony begins anew. The son of the

deceased man is forced to hide his disgust at the horrific task

that lies ahead. Only five days had passed since the first burial

of his father. The body had been tightly wrapped in coconut husks

and sweetly adorned by family members before being sent to the

grave.

The boy conceals his sorrow, and begins to dig.

After a few hours, the heavy corpse of his beloved father is

gently pulled to the surface of the earth. He dusts off his

father’s decaying body and quickly drags it to a hidden shelter

where he will begin his work. He must hurry.

Before daybreak, the son must remove as

many bones from the body as he can without

drawing attention to himself or this ancient

tradition.

Once the bones have been excavated, the son must fashion his

father’s bones into various relics and utensils for the family to

use. Some bones are carved into pots, others into spoons for his

kin to eat with. Perhaps the Trobrianders believed they could

literally digest the spirit of their loved ones.

The souls (and actual bones) of the deceased have been

living on in family eating behaviors for centuries; their spirits

captured in a simple spoon. So, perhaps my family’s eating

rituals were not as odd as I had previously thought. Perhaps Aunt

Judy’s memorial service is another way, an American way, of

celebrating the sacred.

Or maybe it’s not that fancy. Maybe it’s

just that Aunt Judy would have loved the story

of the Trobriand bone utensils as much as she

loved fried chicken.

****

We joined together in pairs under the giant,

green-faced goblin with wiry yellow hair and oversized claws in

the center of the room. Its cloak had been draped over an obvious

Christian cross. Who hangs a goblin over a cross? Isn’t that

sacrilegious?

A part of me felt fearful even condemned, for attempting to

say a prayer under this cloaked demon. And how does one say a

prayer at a time like this? I am too distracted, and to be

honest, wildly entertained by the both the scenery and greasy

treats to even shed a single tear.

The pastor shushes the room and we respectfully take to our

seats at the Halloween picnic tables. My mom, brother and I

choose the table with the sorcerer’s crystal ball surrounded by

rats and spiders as its centerpiece. Looking into the future

seems like a good idea, knowing what else to expect may prevent

the awkwardness the lies ahead. I quickly touch the crystal ball

to activate its power. It has none.

None that I can see. But isn’t a memorial service all about

what we cannot see? (The deceased of course, an obvious example,

though today’s funeral service questions this notion.) What we

grant has power over us, in us, and through us? An unseen but

shared power called into being by prayers, memories, shared food

and laughter, instead of a crystal ball?

“Would anyone like to say a few words about Judy?” the

pastor says.

This is when my family gets into trouble, when guests

quickly transform into performers or an audience, when saying a

few words means taking the stage. And what a fun stage, smack dab

in the middle of a spooky clubhouse, so many strange props from

which to craft elaborate stories. Each guest ducking as we rise

from our chairs to avoid getting bumped in the head by a rotating

witch or dead body swinging from the light fixtures. This is too

much!

Judy’s daughter would surely say a few “serious” and kind

words about her mother- how she had changed after her stroke, how

badly we would all miss her matriarchal qualities that brought

the family together. Her voice is sweet, a little shaky, and a

tear or two fall from her eyes.

Next up, Grandma Joan.

“I have something to say” she said. I love when she starts

like this, so matter-of-fact, as if what she has to stay is quite

possibly the most profound thing she has ever said.

“I rented a house when I was divorced, and the sewer backed

up…” I know this story. It’s about poop. It’s hilarious. Not sure

I would share it today, but what the hell?

“Judy was staying with me then... Well, I came home from

work one day and the toilet wouldn’t work. So I flushed it, and

everything in it came up, shit and everything was coming up over

the side of the toilet.” The best part about this story is that

my Grandma never laughs at this point, she just pauses for a

second, almost like a stand-up comedian that waits for their

audience to really soak up the joke. I can’t help but laugh out

loud. She continues.

“And I said to Judy, ‘help me help me!’” she mimics a cry.

“And she said ‘I can’t help you,’ and she looked at the

toilet and pointed, and she said ‘there’s a big turd coming over

the side right now!’” She shrugs, and sits down.

My family bursts into laughter eyes quickly dart around the

room at one another with looks that say, “are you embarrassed?”

“this is hilarious” “figures she would tell that story!”

That would be a tough act to follow.

“I will share,” I say.

“I just remember this one Christmas when everyone was at our

house doing karaoke,” I begin.

“Oh God!” I hear one of my Aunt’s say out loud.

“And Grandma, Aunt Judy, and Uncle Jim were all singing old

songs. But then Uncle Jim decided to steal the show. And I

remember that he went into the kitchen and took his shirt off,

and pulled his pants down just enough to see his butt crack,” the

family starts to laugh.

Why did I decide to tell this story? Or why was I compelled

to tell it? I look quickly at the crystal ball. Still nothing.

“And he came in singing and dancing, like nothing was

wrong!” I mimic his dance moves- arms outstretched and hips

swaying from side to side. The family keeps laughing, nodding

their heads in remembrance.

Uncle Jim is a 300-pound man, so dancing around without the

proper clothing is not exactly a flattering site or warm

Christmas memory that one would want to hold on to.

This story prompts others from family members that share

about a funny time or happy moment when Judy was around.

But as we are doing so, I notice that Uncle Jim, the star of

my story, is distracted by the centerpiece at his table, a life-

sized, human skull. He can’t stop looking at it, moving it,

playing with it.

My brother and I quickly make eye contact, confirming that

we have both seen the same thing. We had been doing this eye

contact game all day. We have the kind of relationship where you

don’t have to say a word, a simple look says it all and we know

we are on the same page.

The memorial service is about to come to an end when the

pastor says one last prayer and excuses us from the service.

Uncle Jim doesn’t hesitate.

He grabs the skull from the center of his table, hastily

looks around the room to make sure everyone, ANYONE, is paying

attention, and starts to laugh out loud. He slowly draws the

plastic skull closer to his oversized body and looks down toward

his waistline, (which I wonder if he can see).

Finally, his shoulders begin to bounce up and down from

under a 3XL forest green sweatshirt, as his hand guides the skull

back and forth, bobbing it over his

lap in what I will call the most

inappropriate thing a young woman

could ever witness with a male

family member.

“Oh My God!” is all I can think.

Another uncle notices his creative use of the prop and joins

him by making a comment about really “getting a good bone in” or

“that’s what I call getting head,” something to this effect.

My eyes dash toward my brother, searching for affirmation

that he too was witness to the heinous act. My brother, Tristan,

absolutely abhors even the slightest mention of anything remotely

sexual when my mom and I are nearby. His eyes are wide and angry,

and he looks as if he could strangle our uncle!

“SICK!” he says in complete repulsion, as he jerks his head

away from the scene.

But I can’t help to laugh, at least a little.

I wondered if Aunt Judy could see her brother now. What

would she do?

****

The thought of being called “grass” for the dead was not a

flattering one. After all, they barely knew the Chief. Yet, they

knew better than to flee, for they would surely be caught and

their husbands put through torture, a punishment worse than the

inevitable doom that lied ahead.

There would be eleven in all taking place in the loloku, four

men and their respective wives. The men’s bodies would be adorned

and the women’s heads oiled and ornamented, their faces and

bosoms spread with turmeric powders in preparation for the

traditional feast. However, it was not the feast they feared, but

the loloku itself.

As the adornment rituals commence, the two appointed diggers

begin preparing the grave, being sure to make it wide enough to

fit them all. Those chosen for the loloku understand their fate is

a true act of honor, a ritual that promises their reunion with

their chief in the afterlife, for he must never be left

unattended.

So what is loloku to the Fiji foreigner? It is a historical

Fijian custom more commonly known as strangling the deceased

man’s friends and family, then laying them side by side in the

floor of the grave as “grass,” or bedding for the deceased man’s

body. This ritual was practiced as an act of honor and respect

for the Chiefs of Fijian villages.

Learning of this ritual for the

first time in Thomas William’s journal

(a late missionary in Fiji), I had to

pause for some guilty laughter. Not at the brutality and

unfortunate fates the Chief’s servants had to suffer, that was

horrible. But a pause to laugh at the thought of sharing this

story with Aunt Judy. I can just hear her now, “Hell, there’s a

few people in this family I’d be glad to strangle” she might say.

Or, “I can just see your Uncle Jim crying like a little girl in

that Lo-lo-ku thing, ‘Not me! No, not me!’” she would cry. She

always teased him.

AND NOW! She would surely want to strangle him now,

especially in light of his recent sexual escapade with the

plastic tabletop skull. We all wanted to strangle him. Suddenly,

the Fijian custom of loloku didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Aunt

Judy would have loved that story.

****