Mother's fun filled funeral took place yesterday at four in the afternoon. The black attire traditions superseded reflecting the resistance to change that is deeply engrained within the Coptic Orthodox Ramses Family culture. Faced with insurmountable resistance, we reached a compromise that replaced my orange and navy dress with a white, yellow and beige flower patterned black dress. The arguments that flooded my dress were beyond flawed, reflecting my family's apprehension of the judgement others. "It will be a disgrace..What will people say? They will think you are happy she's gone...You're disrespecting your Mother this way...You're being provocative. You didn't know mother at all, how long were you here anyway? [Bless you sister, its comments like this that really make me want to leave!]" I fired my gun and dodged each and every bullet but there was one that grazed the surface. The need to respect the culture within which I was present. My cross cultural background swept over me like a tsunami of dos and don'ts. In a matter of seconds, my mind conquered my ego, realizing that this isn't about me or them. Its is about Mother. Compromise is the best way forward.
Uncultured about Coptic funeral expectations, I stood outside the Church gates greeting unfamiliar faces, unaware that hand shakes were to come at the end of the Funeral. Oops. Walking down the long carpet to the first class seats for the coffin show was heart wrenching. A sea of black bodies surrounded me, resembled the sea of black dressed priests that engulfed Mother's coffin, that was elevated as if on a stage. One monotonous speech after the other my mind began to drift. Midst the standing and sitting bodies in response to the priests' gestures, I remained seated, removed my journal out of my purse and ever so quietly wrote my mother a love letter. I could no longer bare the impersonal messages regurgitated by the well-respected spiritual figures.
With limited interest in the expected behavior and attitudes of daughterless mother's at Coptic funerals, I took a comfortable seat as the detached observer. I know who I am because of my presence in family and society. I understand that my desires clash with others. I accept that rather than bring me closer to wholeness, my ego has separated me from this experience. For the rest of the Funeral, my self-centered aim was to Lead by Example, lift my chin and shoulders up high and smile in celebration of the end of suffering and the beginning of mystery.
The church service ended. Two by two, Mother's parents, sisters, daughters and husband shuffled their way to the church doors to accept condolences. They stood like bottles on a medicine cabinet, women to men. Out of order, I, the eldest daughter marked the bookend of the queue, standing tall next to my father, internally ensuring that the dominoes stayed in place. The power of word of mouth in Egypt seizes to amaze me. Less than six hours the funeral was planned, more than three hundred people managed push their lives aside and attended the sad show. The sound of the words "our condolences" and the look of sorrow on unfamiliar faces hit me like darts to a wall. Breathing exercises and steady gazes kept the tears from flowing, but inside the fountain was overflowing. The darts never hit the center, except when I embraced Mother's best friend, the one person with whom I shard a personal connection. I gave in and it felt right. It's okay. She's in our hearts.
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