Sweeping The Dead
Yesterday was Qing Ming Festival.
Or 清明節 in Chinese, it is the day when Chinese people go visit the graves of their ancestors because they neglect them the rest of the year. Activities usually include the presentation of offerings and the cleaning of the tombs, mainly by sweeping.
Being Good Friday and the closest holiday to Qing Ming, it was on such an occasion that my mom, uncle, and I went to the good ol' mausoleum to pay Grandma and Grandpa a visit. No, we are not rich enough to afford our own family mausoleum, so my late grandparents have a slot in a wall shared with many other neighbors. For some reason, the mausoleum's permanent residents consist almost solely of Chinese and Italians, so I hope my grandparents have learned to speak Italian since their stay there, although it is kind of amusing to think of them going on language exchange with Mr. and Mrs. Benito Mussolini.
Upon our arrival at the mausoleum, we could see people burning offerings such as hell money in a designated oil drum just outside the main entrance. No, we do not have the same definition of "hell" as Westerners; we basically use "hell" interchangeably with "afterlife". (Coming to think of it, next time that Chinese cab driver tells me to "Go to the hell!", I shouldn't take it so badly.)
Anyway, for those of you who don't know, the Chinese believe that you can give presents to your dead loved ones by burning the paper version of it. Unfortunately, this custom has driven such a lucrative industry that things have gotten pretty out of hand, with paper gold bars, paper cars, paper cellphones, paper iPods, paper pets, paper houses, paper servants and concubines, and even paper Viagra.
Regardless, I no longer see any point in burning hell money, as the ridiculously large denominations (Hell$100,000,000 banknotes, for God's sake!), and the fact that everyone is burning them in huge wads means inflation must be astronomically inconceivable in the afterlife. I can picture Grandpa going, "$75,000,000,000,000,000,000 for a stick of gum!?!? WTF!?!?"
That said, back to my grandparents. Seing how the mausoleum's management has tended to the maintenance of the complex's floors, there was no need to do any sweeping - another tradition that has tragically fallen prey to modern economy and pragmatism. Instead, I wiped the dust from the facestone with a wet wipe, while my mom and uncle cut and arranged fresh flowers to be placed in the attached vase.
Being done before them, and having silently made the necessary communications with my grandparents while cleaning them up, I decided to take a quick tour of the place. Most of the slots on the wall were either occupied, or pre-purchased for future..."moving in". It must suck to be the guy stuck with the section of the wall that has the electrical outlet. I guess they reserve that spot for those who died by electrocution.
I was saddened when I happened upon the resting places of those around my age or younger, who presumably died either of traffic accidents or terminal illness. It was even sadder when I came across the grave of a one year old baby, his grave poignantly adorned with knitted baby booties and teddy bears. It was humbling in the sense that it made me feel fortunate to have made it this far.
Afterwards, my mom and uncle came out with the processed flowers, placed them on the vase, and we made our prayers and took the traditional three bows before my grandparents. The overall experience was rather solemn and grim, but a must in order to pay our respects to our ancestors. I don't think the mausoleum is a place where anyone would want to go - the interior is too bright and well-lit for goths, and the atmosphere is too depressing for everyone else. But then again, such a place really isn't meant for the living, is it?
On the way out, Mom started creeping me out, in the way that Chinese moms always somehow manage to do to their kids. Having bought the slots adjacent to Grandma and Grandpa for the rest of the family, she nonchalantly reminded me how she and I will someday reside next to our grandparents, as if the mausoleum is one big apartment complex. I bit my tongue to stop myself from retorting that if I had to spend eternity, or until the bombs drop, with two generations of Chinese parents (or in-laws to my possible wife) breathing down my neck, it would truly be the Western definition of "hell".
Anyways, that's beside the point - I am immortal.
Or 清明節 in Chinese, it is the day when Chinese people go visit the graves of their ancestors because they neglect them the rest of the year. Activities usually include the presentation of offerings and the cleaning of the tombs, mainly by sweeping.
Being Good Friday and the closest holiday to Qing Ming, it was on such an occasion that my mom, uncle, and I went to the good ol' mausoleum to pay Grandma and Grandpa a visit. No, we are not rich enough to afford our own family mausoleum, so my late grandparents have a slot in a wall shared with many other neighbors. For some reason, the mausoleum's permanent residents consist almost solely of Chinese and Italians, so I hope my grandparents have learned to speak Italian since their stay there, although it is kind of amusing to think of them going on language exchange with Mr. and Mrs. Benito Mussolini.
Upon our arrival at the mausoleum, we could see people burning offerings such as hell money in a designated oil drum just outside the main entrance. No, we do not have the same definition of "hell" as Westerners; we basically use "hell" interchangeably with "afterlife". (Coming to think of it, next time that Chinese cab driver tells me to "Go to the hell!", I shouldn't take it so badly.)
Anyway, for those of you who don't know, the Chinese believe that you can give presents to your dead loved ones by burning the paper version of it. Unfortunately, this custom has driven such a lucrative industry that things have gotten pretty out of hand, with paper gold bars, paper cars, paper cellphones, paper iPods, paper pets, paper houses, paper servants and concubines, and even paper Viagra.
Regardless, I no longer see any point in burning hell money, as the ridiculously large denominations (Hell$100,000,000 banknotes, for God's sake!), and the fact that everyone is burning them in huge wads means inflation must be astronomically inconceivable in the afterlife. I can picture Grandpa going, "$75,000,000,000,000,000,000 for a stick of gum!?!? WTF!?!?"
That said, back to my grandparents. Seing how the mausoleum's management has tended to the maintenance of the complex's floors, there was no need to do any sweeping - another tradition that has tragically fallen prey to modern economy and pragmatism. Instead, I wiped the dust from the facestone with a wet wipe, while my mom and uncle cut and arranged fresh flowers to be placed in the attached vase.
Being done before them, and having silently made the necessary communications with my grandparents while cleaning them up, I decided to take a quick tour of the place. Most of the slots on the wall were either occupied, or pre-purchased for future..."moving in". It must suck to be the guy stuck with the section of the wall that has the electrical outlet. I guess they reserve that spot for those who died by electrocution.
I was saddened when I happened upon the resting places of those around my age or younger, who presumably died either of traffic accidents or terminal illness. It was even sadder when I came across the grave of a one year old baby, his grave poignantly adorned with knitted baby booties and teddy bears. It was humbling in the sense that it made me feel fortunate to have made it this far.
Afterwards, my mom and uncle came out with the processed flowers, placed them on the vase, and we made our prayers and took the traditional three bows before my grandparents. The overall experience was rather solemn and grim, but a must in order to pay our respects to our ancestors. I don't think the mausoleum is a place where anyone would want to go - the interior is too bright and well-lit for goths, and the atmosphere is too depressing for everyone else. But then again, such a place really isn't meant for the living, is it?
On the way out, Mom started creeping me out, in the way that Chinese moms always somehow manage to do to their kids. Having bought the slots adjacent to Grandma and Grandpa for the rest of the family, she nonchalantly reminded me how she and I will someday reside next to our grandparents, as if the mausoleum is one big apartment complex. I bit my tongue to stop myself from retorting that if I had to spend eternity, or until the bombs drop, with two generations of Chinese parents (or in-laws to my possible wife) breathing down my neck, it would truly be the Western definition of "hell".
Anyways, that's beside the point - I am immortal.
PS - Sorry I didn't take any photos...God knows if any of the mausoleum's occupants decide to jump in front of my camera and spoil my shot.
posted by Cosmic Ocean at 6:35 PM
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