So, a couple of weekends ago I attended the memorial service for that young man who committed suicide on New Year’s Eve in San Francisco. The whole day was kind of like Sex and the City meets Jeffrey meets Harold and Maude.
Earlier that morning, a small group of us had gathered for
brunch before going to the service. Most in the group had known the gentlemen
fairly well. As they shared stories about him, I began to get a clearer picture
of his personality. Not everything they said about him was flattering and one man
said that he really couldn't stand the guy for the longest time, because he
found him to be too full of himself and a bit of a snob. However, he added that
over time he grew to appreciate the young man’s particular form of bitchiness. As
we ate our food, we all indulged ourselves in our particular forms of
bitchiness, making wise cracks, etc. When something like this happens, you have
to find ways to laugh. I said that we should start a Twitter hash tag called
#deathbecomesher and live tweet the whole event.
The memorial service was held at a club in South of Market.
Having only been to this venue at night to dance, I could scarcely imagine what
it was going to be like during the day for this event. Thankfully, the roof had
skylights, so there was plenty of light throughout the space. When we walked in,
someone in our group said in their best California teenage girl voice, “Oh my
god, this is just like being in a club.” I looked around. Everyone was dressed
in various shades of gray or black, so I dryly added, “Yea, a club in LA.”
We immediately went to the bar to get drinks; there was a
choice of complimentary sparkling wine and punch, and the regular bar was also
open. We went for the free sparkling stuff. A guy behind me asked, “Does anyone
know what’s in the punch?” A gentleman beside him answered, “Vodka,
pomegranate…oh, and GHB.” Everyone giggled. Then he whispered loud enough for
only a few of us to hear, “And, it’s on the rocks.”
I had heard the phrase “on the rocks” tossed around a few
times that week whenever anyone spoke about the suicide. I concluded that this
was because the poor lad never made it to the water when he jumped off of the
Golden Gate Bridge, landing instead on the concrete area surrounding one of the
support columns. The first time I heard someone use the expression, it was something
like, “We all had drinks last night in his honor, and of course everything was
served on the rocks!”
There were other expressions of comic relief that week too. One
night, at the bar the deceased had worked, I watched someone put a Band-Aid on
his laminated photograph that was part of his memorial announcement. When the bartender
saw it, he removed it, stating “It’s too soon.”
As our group filtered towards the stage in the club, we each
spoke with various people we knew. It was the usual chitchat: “How are you?”
someone would ask; “I’m okay,” another would answer; “Good to see you,” someone
would say; “I wish it were under better circumstances,” someone else would
reply. As these verbal exchanges were happening, I could hear music coming from
the speakers hanging above our heads. It was house music, not too loud, but you
could definitely hear the beats. I whispered to a friend, “I’m so glad the
soundtrack to our lives is playing in the background.” On the right of the
stage, there were two life-size photo cutouts of Beyoncé and Britney Spears. I
looked at my partner and said, “I think I’m going to need some more bubbly just
to get through this.” He obliged me.
The program consisted of a number of presenters, both family
and friends. As I listened to them, I was deeply moved. People spoke about
their sorrow and their anger, and they talked about their joy and their
memories too. Listening to that young man’s mother speak about her son was
heart wrenching. I cried. When she screeched, “If I could have only been there
for you that night,” I understood her guilt and her pain. It was one of the
most crushing moments of grief I've ever witnessed. Instead of feeling like a
cheap voyeur, I felt privileged.
While listening to the procession of speakers, I thought
about a friend who had passed away almost two decades ago. He was someone I had
worked with and had known for about ten years. After he found out he was
positive, he was dead within 6-8 months. His memorial service remains vivid in
my memory. It was appalling—simply no other way to state it. Those of us who
attended that service were subjected to a lecture, one that went on for over an
hour. It was about “lifestyles” that some deity called God condemns. I don’t
recall if homosexuality was ever mentioned specifically, but everyone in that building
called a church understood what that pathetic excuse for a human being called a
preacher was referring to as he shouted at us. When he finished, a man seated
behind me exclaimed in tears, “He didn't even say his name!”
I still get disgusted and infuriated every time I think
about Kevin’s funeral. When he died, he wasn't that much older than the guy
whose memorial we were attending now. I leaned over and whispered in my
partner’s ear, “This should have been the service Kevin had.” He looked at me
and said, “I know.” It wasn't too long after this that an aunt walked on the
stage and began to speak.
“We had only recently reconnected,” she said.
“We had been going to monthly dinners,” she said.
“We went September and October, but I’m really sad we won’t
be able to continue them,” she said.
“My daughter is a model,” she said.
“She just finished a photo-shoot at Vera Wang,” she said.
“I’m so proud of her,” she said.
“We weren't sure if we were going to be able to enjoy it,
since it was only a few days after the event,” she said.
“She looked so beautiful,” she said.
“I would like to make an announcement,” she said.
“It’s a bit of self-promotion,” she said.
“I will be doing Tough Mudder next year,” she said.
“It’s for a good cause, the veterans,” she said.
“I would love if any of you could join me,” she said.
“Are there any Christians here?” she asked.
“I want to say that I’m so thankful that my nephew was a
Christian,” she said.
“I know he is in heaven,” she said.
“Do you feel the urge to pray?” she asked.
“If you ever feel like you need to go to church and pray,
there is a church in the Mission,” she said.
“The address is 432…um, what’s the address of that church with
rainbows again?” she asked someone on the stage beside her.
I couldn't listen to her speak anymore. The tone of her
voice was somewhere between a life coach and a real estate agent, with a dash
of a late night infomercial host. I slowly turned around and faced the scores
of people behind me. Everyone stood with their jaws dropped, transfixed by the
train wreck who was blathering on stage. Some were holding back laughter, while
others looked on in shocked disbelief. I glanced at my partner and without
saying a word to each other we walked to the bar in the back of the club and
ordered cocktails. I pulled out my phone, launched Twitter and typed: Nothing
ruins a memorial like Christians #deathbecomesher.
