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Posts Tagged ‘grudges’

Death: the Good, the Bad and the Ugly

Thursday, July 16th, 2009

Been thinking a lot about death lately. Probably because about five hundred million famous people died recently. Billy Mays the infomercial guy and that singer dude, what’s-his-name. Michael something. Plus Farrah. And in my circle, someone died that I hated but who was revered by many. All of which has left me with some conflicting emotions. Our current culture doesn’t exactly promote healthy feelings towards death. Neither does my family. Especially when the dead person was Satan to some and God to others. Like MJ and this person I knew.

If you had a healthy relationship with the deceased, you go through a grieving process and then eventually heal. But when an abusive jerk dies, the process is more complicated. Some suddenly revere the abuser and recreate their past with them. Some people won’t let go of their hate, no matter how long the person’s been gone. But most people are torn about their hatred of the dead and don’t know what to do with their feelings.

As for me, when someone who was mean to me dies, I’m happy about it. Very happy. But people get freaked out when I express this. In my experience, most dead people get elevated to some sort of sainthood, even if they were jerks. I don’t get it. If the people were horrible when they were alive, they’re horrible when they’re dead. Death doesn’t erase their evil deeds, nor does it excuse them.

Nor do I understand why I can’t bitch about the dead. “Don’t speak ill of the dead.” Why not? What’s gonna happen? Like they’re gonna crawl out of their graves and return to defend themselves? I’ve been alive for fifty years and I speak ill of the dead daily. None of the people I’ve bitched about have returned. Look, I’ll do it right now. I hated my abusive, sadistic childhood dentist, Dr. Stanton (who also terrorized all my siblings). I was six, he was drilling on a tooth, it hurt, I said so. He told me it didn’t. I started crying. So he latched onto my jaw—digging his fingers painfully into my tender flesh and bone—and put his ugly face about an inch away from mine. With his eyes all bugged out, his teeth clenched and sweat beading on his warty forehead, he growled, “You’re not in pain!” This is a man that deserved to be dead. Like five seconds after he terrorized me. Freakin’ Dr. Mengele, the friendly children’s dentist. So, here I am, incredibly happy that the bastard is dead. The song that comes to mind is from the musical, Scrooge. People are dancing on Dr. Stanton’s coffin singing “Thank you very much, that’s the nicest thing that anyone’s ever done for me!” Now I’ll wait and see if his wormy corpse comes lurching through my door with his arms outstretched, repeating his famous line, “Don’t say ‘ow’, say ‘ow now brown cow’. Nope. He’s not there. See? Nothing happened.

Still, with death, it’s not always appropriate to voice one’s opinion and I’m very careful with whom I share my thoughts. And I certainly don’t speak ill of the dead in front of people who loved them. I may be feisty, but I’m not insensitive.

Which is why this week, I’ve pretty much kept my delight to myself. The only danger I can see with all my secret glee is that it speaks to some unresolved issues. I want to let go of my hate for the person (like I obviously need to do with Dr. Nasty Dentist). I want to let go of all my feelings for her. Because I don’t want to end up like my father.

My father has not let go of any grudge, ever. He bitches about dead people like they’re still in the room, tormenting him. Like my aunt whose been dead for five years. Last week, he spewed out his Holy Grail of grudges against his sister, working himself up to the same level of ferocity he always does when telling the story. His eyes turned red, he shook and sweated and spitted and growled. “She was rotten. Rotten! Spoiled brat. Ever since I accidentally shot her when she was five. We told her, time and time again, don’t play in front of the barrel! But no, she wouldn’t listen, so the gun went off and then she told everyone from then on that I shot her!” Okay, this happened in 1931 when Dad was nine and Jacquie was five. He is eighty-seven, she is DEAD. This is a seventy-eight-year-old grudge. Longer than the average lifespan of most people. This is a grudge that started when Herbert Hoover was president. When Al Capone went to prison for tax evasion. When Charlie Chaplin starred in City Lights. When the Empire State Building was built. Before World War Two.

So while I’m thrilled my evil enemies are dead, I don’t want to go overboard. I want to let it all go. What I want to feel for them is nothing. And I don’t ever want to think about them again.

Which brings me to the best thing about death: the reminder that someday I will die. While I’m making every effort to last until I’m 104 (I recently got an expiration date tattooed on me: Best Before: 9/11/2063), I want to pack as much fun and write as many novels as I can before I leave. I don’t want to waste one more moment thinking about the people who were mean to me. I want to embrace life, not death.

So while I’m tempted to go dance on a certain person’s grave, I think about my father and his seventy-eight-year-old grudge. While I might allow myself a quick jig right now, in the future I don’t need to be ranting about dead jerks while I’m piloting my flying car up to the Starbucks hovering over the Bay. I’d rather be enjoying the view.

©2009, Janet Periat

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