The funeral

In a village of 800 people, one death ripples more than elsewhere.  Last week, an Elder passed away from cancer.  She was older, beloved and related, it seemed to me, to nearly everyone.  At our staff meeting last week, Margi the secretary announced the details of the funeral weren't set but that there would most certainly be a potluck after the service and everyone was invited to bring a dish.  She emphasized that everyone was invited, even those who had never met Flora.

This set me a quandary.  I feel that funerals are a private type of situation and I could never quite understand why anyone would want to go to one if they didn't have some type of connection to the deceased.  A few years ago, I did a one-day turnaround trip from Portland to Seattle to attend the funeral of the mother of a girl I went to grade and high school with but hadn't seen in years.  To this day, I am not sure if Anne Marie knew I was there but I felt better for having gone.

I asked around my fellow White teachers and only one planned to attend the funeral but she was a relative.  Finally I asked the Yupik teacher who works across the hall from me, and whose son is in my class, "Is it more offensive for me to attend a funeral for this Elder I never met or to not show up?"  Her eyebrows went up, a sign around here that someone is amused by my ignorance of local customs.  She told me that no one would think less of me for not going, especially since I am in the category of Newest Teacher.  But then she muddied the water by adding that I was welcome to attend if I wanted.

Part of me really wanted to go, for the pure motive of curiosity to see what a traditional Yupik funeral was like.  I do not know if Flora attended one of the four churches in town or if there would be a religious component to the service.  I thought about my food in the pantry and what I could cobble together for a "hot dish" to offer.  I thought about what to wear in this land of jeans and hoodies.

In the end, the decision was fairly easy.  I simply didn't feel comfortable going.  But when a few of us were retuning from town for mail and groceries, we found ourselves accidentally in the funeral procession.  How did we know?  Not motorcycle cops escorting a hearse but the sight of the casket in the back of a pickup truck, held in place with what appeared to be bungie cords and five guys hanging onto it.  Up the hill we went, eventually splitting off to the school road while the rest went to the cemetery, located next to the dump.  Alaskan practicality at its best or unfortunate coincidence?  Yet another question I am embarrassed to ask.