The Cremation of Man

The first time I visited London back in 2008, I was part of a class at Grand Valley State University and Kingston University in Surbiton. We were assigned to study various cultures that immigrated to London. I was in a very unfortunate group project with three other students--one who claimed they wanted to marry Hitler, one anime enthusiast, and one older student who was very....curious I guess for lack of a better word. Now, had we gotten a culture like afro-carribean or even Muslim, the group dynamic would have been fine. However, the culture that we were assigned to was the Jewish immigrants. It was very uncomfortable for me because the older student was very sympathetic and outspoken as was the Hitler lover girl. I acted as peace keeper amongst the group.

We decided that one of our outings should go to Golders Green, a very hasidic community of London. I was very nervous to be there with my group, primarily because of the nazi-enthusiast. We tried to go around the neighbourhood and interview various people from this community, but they were very, very nervous about speaking to us Americans. While in Golders Green, we discovered that Freud was cremated and his ashes were visitable in the mausoleum. Cool, right!?! We all agreed that we wanted to go check this out and pay our respects. We found the cemetery/synagogue/crematorium pretty easily where it was discovered that it was one of the only Jewish crematoriums in Europe as the Hasidic Jewish community is pretty firmly against cremation. The cemetery is pretty amazing and I was very moved by the culture and the rituals that this community holds dear. To pay respects to graves in this culture, you place a small, flat stone upon their headstone. These flat stones are then stacked one on top of another on each headstone. It's a pretty amazing site to see with all of these stones. 

We headed towards the synagogue to request permission to pay our respects to Freud's ashes and we met a very nice cremator who was more than willing to speak with us and learn more about the culture. My dark group members wanted to discuss more with him about what the process was for cremation. His face then lit up and he said that he actually had a cremation that he was about to do if we wanted to watch. I said no at the same time as the rest of the group said yes. I turned to them with a fearful look. I have a slight fear of dead bodies--what the hell were they thinking?! I didn't want to ruin any of their rituals, but I was quickly outnumbered. We followed him to the back of a different building and I was mentally preparing myself to be in a room where I was surrounded by death.

The room was very clean and orderly, with two huge (again for lack of a better term) brick furnaces, large brooms, and other tools I have no idea how to describe. These were all used to move the body in the furnace and I was immediately intimidated by these tools. He had a desk with a very organized scheduling system of when to cremate whom. It was impressive. He took us over to a tv where there was a hidden camera of a funeral taking place. I saw the figures dressed in black and I was sad for them. It was all so surreal. The cremator said that they were just finishing up with the funeral, and minutes later after everyone exited the room, the coffin was placed on a conveyor belt and it went from the tiny screen and was suddenly in front of us.

"How are you going to get the body into the furnace?" I asked with a whole array of feelings. I was terrified that they were going to need my help to remove the body from the coffin.
"All we do is just take the whole coffin and put it in the furnace. Pretty straight forward. The coffin is a special coffin that burns easily and is made with very thin wood," he said non-chalently.

And with one quick motion, he placed the coffin inside with his tools. "The tricky part is to make sure that coffin is placed in the right spot."
"How long does the process take?" one of my group members asked, a little too fascinated for my comfort level.
"Well, the first one of the day takes the most time because the furnace is so large that it takes a while to get them up and running. After three or four in the day, I can get them done in under an hour."
We peered hesitantly at the burning coffin through the glass but saw nothing. I was scared that the coffin would break down and the body would be exposed but that never happened. We chatted more with him about his job (none of this we were able to put in our final report) because we knew how rare this experience was. I mean who else can say that they have seen what I was seeing? Not many. And this crematorium was the oldest in London and one of the oldest in existence of Britain. Pretty amazing experience.
"What happens if you leave ashes in there?"we asked.
 "Well, most of everyone gets into the right place as we clean these pretty well. However, there is a variable degree of inaccuracy that not all of everyone gets put in the right place or that maybe a few ashes that are impossible to get out of the corners get placed in a different urn. Usually the ashes just burn away from person to person."

When the cremation was done, he opened the door to the furnace on both sides and swept the furnace and placed the ashes in a clear plastic bag. "We do this until the family picks out the urn," he explained. "The sad part is when the family never picks up their family member."
We all gasped. "Has that happened before?"
"Oh yeah, it's more common then you would think, unfortunately," he said.
He then led us into a supply room with large metal shelves. "We have some bags that have been here for over 50 years."

We looked at all of the people, essentially, on the shelves and I felt sick. How could their family just leave them there? I couldn't even fathom it. "The saddest ones to me are these little bags," as he pointed to them. "These are babies, still-borns, and small children. Obviously they don't have as many ashes..." he trailed off. We all looked at the small bags and wanted to cry. It was one of the saddest moments in my life.

And with that, we thanked him for his time and left to go back home. We all had so many emotions and thoughts running through our mind and when we got back to campus and met up with the other groups, we weren't sure what to tell them. "What did you see today? We saw a cremation."

My class and professor were very enthralled in our experience and to this day, I will never forget one minute of that day. It also really got me thinking if cremation was right for me. I mean, you can't help but think of that, right? I think I would like to be cremated because it seems so beautiful to me.

Motivation for Writing

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So this weekend has been filled with some interesting events. I was supposed to continue my blog about my performers on the subway, however, tonight I just need to write about something without a purpose. Ernest Hemingway says to write drunk and edit sober, but he didn't live to see the word vomit of blogs. Not sure what he would have said about them but I am definitely going to write now.

I am supposed to be doing a lot of things. I am supposed to be in bed right now, asleep and not thinking about my first week of school starting in less than 8 hours. I am supposed to be worrying about things that I have to do. Yet, here I sit on Chris's bathroom floor (yes, I write mostly in the bathroom) unable to sleep because I am so many random thoughts floating through my head.

First off, is my shitty living situation. I unfortunately cannot delve too much into that because it affects certain potential readers of my blog. What I can say is that I thought that the worst was over and now I realise that I was being too optimistic. Reality is that the worst is far from over. I am hoping that in the next week things will turn around, otherwise I am going to be stuck with a huge bill that I cannot afford, especially now.

I am also sitting up and worrying about my work week. Long hours, a lot of fires, new students...it's going to be intense. I really need to sleep. I am at the point of the evening where my nerves won't let me and if I take a sleeping pill then I will risk sleeping through my alarm. It really blows.

The most shocking thing that happened this evening that is compeltely throwing me off is that on this small island of Manhattan, Chris and I run into his ex. She was really nice but it was so strange to put a face with a name. I feel like Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally, "In a city of eight million people, you are bound to run into your ex." It seems quite unlikely, but I have seen 2 people who I went on horrible blind dates with and had to run away from. So, yeah, that happened. I am wondering who it was most uncomfortable for. Me? Chris? Her? This is not a situation that I have ever been in before. What are the emotions to feel? I'm totally lost...alright. Got that out of my system. Should go to bed now because I can't think anymore.

Performers of New York Transportation

One of the things that I love about New York and riding the subway is the performances that I am forced to see. I usually tend to avoid these by jumping on a car further down from where I see them get on because I want to get some reading done on the subway. Other times, I am thrilled when someone randomly starts performing. No matter which direction you are headed or what line you are taking, you are bound to run into these different types of performers. Here is my list of some of the best and worst types of performers, because--hey--who ever critiques them?

The Mexican Men: They travel in packs of 3 or 4 and typically wear cowboy hats, button down plaid shirts, have mustaches, are under 5'5 tall, and wear cowboy boots. One of them always plays an accordion and two usually play the acoustic guitars. They usually all sing and harmonize with one another, which I find nice. They play upbeat spanish songs and I don't think they speak a lot of English. They will stand in the middle of the train car for their minute long song before one of them branches off and slowly hits up everyone on the train for money via the large cowboy hat. They will always tell you gracias instead of thank you if you choose to make a donation. Once the train stops at the next station, they will all scuttle out and into the next train car. They do this all day on the same line, I believe. They always have this huge smile on their faces when they sing, so sometimes that is pleasant to see. Other times, when I am crabby and want to listen to my ipod, that sickening smile is the last thing that I want to see. I always wonder how much money they make riding on the train all day long because they have stiff competition with the other performers I will mention on the trains, and there are many Mexican clans that sing and ride and do the same schtick as them.

The poet/starving writer: These are few and far between, but twice now I have been graced with their appearance in my car. The poet will give long winded statement about how he keeps out of drugs and alcohol because he finds solace in writing. He emphasises frequently about how all of the poetry he is about to read is HIS OWN. Not plagiarised whatsoever. That's what he says anyway. They are pretty amateur. As a fellow writer and poet, I always cringe when I hear bad poetry. I want to give them tips and help them, but they just need to take a couple of classes I think. The poetry usually rhymes and gets pretty clunky when they add too many syllables in have of the poem. The rhymes are pretty elementary too like 'you,' 'true,' 'love,' 'above' and the like. I do commend them for being personal and getting the courage to express themselves to an audience who usually don't want to be an audience. I give them money because I know how hard it is to write, and I really enjoy the break up of other performers. The other performer I saw was basically a desperate writer/salesman who was promoting his book on the subway. It was a comedic book about weird/semi-funny observations about New York. He wanted people to buy his book from him for $20 (a ridiculous amount to ask for on the train btw). I obviously didn't invest because 1.) I didn't think it sounded that great 2.) I wasn't his target audience 3.) way over-priced 4.) He told all of the funny bits whilst trying to up sell the entire book and 5.) I felt like he should blog, not write. Call me caddy, but I could tell that he probably wasn't the strongest writer either.

The intense piano man: No, not Billy Joel. I am talking long black trench coats, stringy hair, furrowed brow, with fingerless gloves. His ensemble is the same no matter what season it is here in the city. He carries a beer stein or coffee cup with him and will bring an electronic keyboard without the stand. He sits at the end of the train car on the floor and furiously pounds out Chopin or Mozart or some upbeat saloon style song and waits for people to walk down the car and put money in his cup/stein. This is pretty ineffective though because even though these guys are pretty good on piano, the people on the car feel like not only did you assume we wanted music and not silence, but now I have to get out of my seat and almost fall in the car to put money in your little cup?! Not happening unfortunately. The piano man becomes disgruntled and storms off the train at the next stop, putting a curse on everyone in the car. They are always very intense and usually a "few fries short of a happy meal" if you catch my drift. They are on the verge of either a nervous breakdown or being institutionalised.

These are just some of the performers that you will find exclusively in New York City's subway system. Will write more about the performers soon. I am saving the best for last!

Killer Grasshopper

And now I think it’s time to explain my irrational fear of grasshoppers. The first memory of my life is the sole reason why I am still deathly afraid of them. When I was about three years old, my mom packed my sister and me into the car to head for the beach. I was very excited to play in the water and perhaps bury my sister in the sand so that we could leave her and I would be an only child again. We were loaded into the car, my sister and I both in car seats.

My mom took off when I discovered that I was not alone in the backseat with my sister. Out of nowhere this mutant, prehistoric brownish creature with huge legs, crazy eyes, and legs that stretched for miles emerged from its hiding place and started approaching me. My sister was too young (a baby) and stupid to understand that this creature was going to rip our faces off and feed on our bodies. But I knew. He slowly starting crawling towards my car seat with the crazy, murderous look in his eyes. I screamed for my mom and she turned around but didn't see anything. She told me to be quiet but I was still shrieking. How could she not see this mammoth between the car seats?!!! Was she blind!!!!!? I pleading in my clearly literate baby shrieks and limited vocabulary that I was about to be eaten and to pull over and get rid of the monster but my mother didn't understand. She said that we were only a mile away from the beach and it would be over soon. A mile!? That is like 3 hours to a small child in clear danger.

The grasshopper creeped closer still, eyeing me and licking its sharp teeth. Right as my mom pulled into the parking lot, the grasshopper sprang at me and jumped on my face. I was screaming bloody murder and helplessly batting the grasshopper off my face. I was afraid it would go in my mouth. The car seat was constricting me and my mom FINALLY came in the back and got rid of the nasty bug. I was scarred for life. To this day, I hate them and they terrify me. If the apocalypse ever happens, I will die of fright from the locust infestation. I hate the feeling when they smack against my legs. I hate that when they jump then they are never quite sure which direction they are springing in. I hate the way that they land on their sides and crawl. I really hate the flying ones that chase me seriously down the street.

A few months ago, while staying with my parents in Minnesota, (AKA grasshopper central) I took a run near their house with my sister and mom. They convinced me that the grasshoppers weren't bad this year and so I went with them. Once we got a good distance from safety, the grasshoppers came out on the street and started jumping all over me along with the crickets (which I also hate because they are so similar to grasshoppers and can run and jump) and I had a full-blown panic attack. What did my caring family do? They laughed. Laughed and laughed and couldn't breathe from all of the laughing. Nice, right? NOT COOL. I'll remember that MOM when I am putting you in a nursing home. It is now a running joke that my family gets me paraphernalia of grasshoppers to always remind me of how I'm going to die. I hate them, I loathe them, and that my friends is just one of my many irrational fears.

Please Don't Hear What I Hear!

There’s always that one moment in everyone’s life when you just want to hide beneath a rock.  Perhaps it hasn’t happened yet or perhaps you are thinking about that moment, wishing you had forgotten it.  Due to my self-confidence and procrastination, I experienced a very traumatic moment as a young child.

I was an absent-minded fourth grader and I thought I knew everything. In truth though, I knew nothing.  I started voice lessons that year and had finally proven myself worthy of singing in front of my church.  For years I yearned for the spotlight and to have the approval of everyone at my church.  I wanted the recognition of a soloist and not as part of the children’s choir.

I decided to debut myself during Christmas because I knew that I could easily find a song to sing within the short amount of time.  Finally, after a couple days of searching for the perfect song I settled with the well-known classic, “Do You Hear What I Hear?"  Despite my parents constantly nagging me to practice my piece, I procrastinated because I was overconfident.  So as the weeks turned into days till my concert, I finally started to practice my piece.  I thought that since it was well known I did not have to study it as much because I should have known it.  Boy, was I wrong!

The night of the concert I was so proud to be in the program instead of watching it.  In an attempt to show off to the other performers, I started to put the guilt trip on the them saying things like, ”I am going to do terrible”, or, “Watch, I am going to forget all the words.”

The announcer called my name as I walked out to the microphone.  I nodded to the pianist, signaling that I was ready to begin and she started to play.  I didn’t even think about the words, I just sang whatever came out of my mouth.  Blank faces stared at me as I started to mesh the phrases of the song together. I sung phrases like, "The child, the child, sleeping in the night/ with a tail as big as a kite.” It was, perhaps, the worst moment of my life.  I went home and cried myself to sleep.  I was a failure and I thought that my church would never want me to sing ever again.

Even though I laugh at it today I learned a valuable lesson that night. I learned that it takes more than talent to be a performer.  Even the greatest singers must be dedicated and rehearse their songs.  Procrastination and over self-confidence will never make you a better singer.  
To this day, I hate that song and will never sing it anywhere as long as I live. My family will also never let me forget my lyrical humiliation either....I guess because I make them so proud?