Month: October 2015

I’ve become more attentive to “Dia de Los Muertos.” I have long connected Halloween, with all of its celebratory spirits cavorting around, and the “Dia de Los Muertos” of Mexican tradition, the “Day of the Dead.” But I hadn’t gotten some of the richness enjoyed by true believers in the day until recently.

Then I heard a Mexican film maker interviewed about his new project in which the “Dia” is a central feature. He spoke about a time growing up when, after a good friend of his died in youth, his father told him that the friend would live on as long as the yet-to-be film maker continued to tell his friend’s jokes, see his friend with him in his mind’s eye as he enjoyed a special experience, and danced with him on the Day of the Dead.

Immortality rooted in memory. That is hardly a new concept. It reminds me of words I used at my father’s memorial service and on sympathy cards I have written since. “He is no longer where he once was but he is everywhere you are.” These words are not original, and I wish I could remember where I heard them first. Certainly, to me, they immortalize the author, even if it is Hallmark.

The older I get, the more people I know who have died. So the universe of people who compete for a place only in my memory expands. Without question, some of those departed have faded in my memory and are less “immortal” to me than, say, my father, or grandparents or my professional mentor. I hope that those who fade in my memory remain vivid in the memories of others, extending their opportunity for immortality.

There are people who will live on forever, or seemingly so, because they wrote the Gettysburg Address or the Declaration of Independence or made a classic film or wrote a classic book. A piece of work that stays in the public eye over generations will always stimulate interest among the living regarding the person who accomplished the memorable deed. In some cases, like Lincoln and Jefferson, we have built stone memorials that guarantee their presence in the public eye until the stone crumbles.

Indeed, immortality is a benefit of significant public accomplishment. And it is not always predictable. Lincoln thought that the world would “little note nor long remember what we say here but can never forget what they did here.” The Address far outweighs the Battle in the public consciousness.

The magic of “Dia de Los Muertos” is that the living make a conscious effort, at least on this one day a year, to breathe life into the memories of the dead. To be so remembered requires no other accomplishment than to have been born, integrated into a family or a community, thereby touching the lives of others. “Dia de Los Muertos” is an egalitarian form of immortality; there are no limitations of class, wealth or accomplishment.

I, as a gringo, understand “Dia” to be celebratory, filled with dancing and revelry, if not actual, then in spirit. Any and all of the dead are invited. The film maker referred to a friend who arranged to be married on November 1 just so a deceased friend could attend.

I am aware of how many more families and groups of friends are organizing “celebrations of life” for the newly dead rather than funerals or memorial services, which seem to feel more somber. There are even folks nearing death who organize their own celebrations of life, choosing to be joyful about life until its physical end.

We often understand that, whatever it is called, the event following a person’s death is for the benefit of the living. Maybe its purpose is not so limited, if one accepts the premise of “Dia de Los Muertos” as a time when the spirit of the departed is alive to the living. Maybe it is an important ritual for the newly dead who, it would seem, are integrally involved in a transition, too.

There are lots of imponderables where death is concerned. One day, when I have “crossed over,” to use a poetic metaphor, I might understand more. For now, I plan to use “Dia de Los Muertos” to throw a party, invitation only, and you cannot be physically alive to attend. In spirit we may dance and celebrate. I hope somebody throws a similar party in fifty years or so and invites me.

(And speaking of spirits…as Judy was helping to edit this piece, she accidentally and unknowingly called for Siri’s help on her iPhone. Judy read aloud “In spirit we may dance and celebrate.” Seemingly from nowhere , Siri replied, “Hmm, I think I will sit this one out.)

Daniel E. White

October 26, 2015

The Hawaii Symphony’s new season has begun. I feel transported at the symphony when I see the conductor walk in, usually from the wings to the left, as applause starts. The orchestra rises as one. The conductor shakes hands with the concertmaster, and the orchestra sits down, prepared to play.

I am in Honolulu at the Blaisdell Concert Hall, but I could be in Disney Hall in Los Angeles, Avery Fisher Hall in New York, or across the ocean in countless halls. In the time that it takes for the conductor to reach the podium, three long-standing traditions of respect have occurred. Each lends a dignity as well as a timelessness to the beginning of a symphony concert.

Respect: a concept that has been cheapened in recent times by the way some people justify their bad behavior. They claim to have been “disrespected” and use the claim to act irresponsibly. Respect is something that, if you give, you expect to get. And, generally, you do.

Respect can accompany a position in life. Judy and I were invited some years ago to dine at a restaurant owned by parents of students attending our school from Thailand. At the desk, I identified us as Dr. and Mrs. White and mentioned the names of the students.

“Ah, teachers,” the woman behind the desk replied as she and the maitre’ d bowed. We were honored and taken aback at the same time. Some cultures, it seems, still revere teachers and lend them respect.

I was raised to hold the door open for my elders to pass through before I did. As young people, we would tease each other by holding the door for a contemporary and saying “respect your elders.” Though I can now be classified among the elders, I still hold the door open for people older than me. Often, the “thank you” I receive is accompanied by a quizzical look, as though such an expression of respect is rare.

I speak to retirement communities about U.S. Presidents. One gent who lamented the verbal and written abuse he thinks President Obama has attracted, asked me if any previous President had suffered as much. I assured him that every President since Washington has endured critics who have been brutal in their characterizations and accusations, like comparing Lincoln unfavorably to a baboon.

I went on to say that most people go out of their way to respect the office, if not the occupant. Most times, the President is still addressed as Mr. President. Few partisan politicians hurl personal epithets at the President, whichever his party. That is left to talk radio hosts. Former Presidents rarely criticize current Presidents.

I served as a school headmaster for 26 years. I know I made some people upset. I used to encourage people who disagreed to be open about their concerns with me; all I asked was for them to be respectful of the office. Being the head of anything invariably requires making somebody angry sometime.

It was never easy to hear criticism of my decisions or actions. Somehow I learned, though, that my duty was to hear it and respect the right of the speaker. It worked out okay.

When the New York City policemen turned their backs on the Mayor at the funerals of two slain officers a while back, who was injured more, the Mayor or the reputation of the protesters? Being respectful doesn’t always taste good. It is always in good taste.

I like singing “Hawai’i Pono’i” and the national anthem at events in Hawaii. Yes, the first symphony performance of the season began with the audience standing to sing the national anthem and the state anthem. Those are other traditions that unite us with past and future. They express our pride and our respect for our state and our nation.

Goodness knows that the people running the state and the nation sometimes do things that make my teeth grate. I believe our leaders strive to serve the common good, so I must accept that, sometimes, my idea of the common good might not be theirs. Still, why would I not respect their offices?

Being disrespectful, besides being bad manners, reveals a lack of respect for one’s self. In the movie “Quartet,” (a film for People of a Certain Age that young folks ought to see, too), the former opera diva, Jean, wallowing in self-pity, laments “we used to be somebody.” Her companion, Sissy, the alto slipping into dementia, responds “I thought I still was somebody.”

People who respect themselves without being worshipful, accept who they are as unique, not special, no matter their stage and station in life. They find it easy to respect others and the traditions that bind us to our history and each other.

I like being around those kind of people. So I go to the symphony.

Daniel E. White

October 13, 2015

 

Recently, I read about a preacher who travels across the country reciting the Book of Mark word for word, with expressions and emotions added. Mark, as other books of the Bible, was probably an oral tradition at first anyway. Not that maybe people were readers back then, and many sentences begin with the word “and,” as though the speaker was insuring that he kept the floor until he had finished.

To refresh my memory about the uniqueness of Mark, I opened a Bible my Dad had used in his ministry. A Christmas card sent over 25 years ago by friends to my parents bookmarked the opening of the letter to the Ephesians.

In pencil, Dad had written Ephesians 2:4-10, and he had made a check mark by verses 4 and 10 as a guide for his reading. The passage speaks to one main point: “By grace you have been saved.” The text continues to note the “innumerable riches of grace,” and then, lest there be any doubt, that “this is not your own doing.”

People of a Certain Age, are there not in your lives words or ideas that have been persistent puzzlers to you for lo, these many years? Grace has been one for me.

As a word, grace has many meanings. Growing up, our family said grace before dinner each night. Royalty in BBC productions are often called “Your Grace.” Athletes and dancers, who excel at their movements, are often lauded as graceful. My aunt was named Grace. There are many more meanings in the dictionary.

Grace, as a word, never has meant anything bad. How many times have you read about a person commenting that another person had “grace enough not to {whatever}?”

Grace as a concept seems something I would want. Yet if the Apostle Paul was correct in his letter, you can’t just apply for grace. I’m not sure even how one might qualify for grace, which is Paul’s point.

I have probably trivialized grace using an expression you might have used as well: “there but for the grace of God go I.” Yet I am aware of much good fortune in my life that is clearly not my own doing. Is grace involved?

I believe I know grace when I see it. On one occasion, I was assigned the Inspirational Moment for our weekly Rotary meeting. In the days before, I had spent time with a friend and fellow Rotarian, just turned 80, who had just learned that he had cancer, on top of diabetes and other major medical issues.

I had not talked with my friend about either the diagnosis or the prognosis but I had studied his face, listened to his words and was, perhaps, more attentive to him, for some reason, than usual.

What I saw in him was grace. I said so as my Inspirational Moment. I said we could all hope that when we confronted the facts about how our own lives were likely to end, we could be like my friend. The other Rotarians seemed to agree.

There is a story told about Associate Justice Potter Stewart of the U.S. Supreme Court who, in the case of Jacobellis v. Ohio (1964) wrote a short opinion to concur that the particular movie the case was about did not merit censorship. “Hard core pornography,” he wrote, “is hard to define but I know it when I see it.” For how many things in our lives is that true: precise definitions might elude us, “but we know it when we see it?”

That’s how I feel about grace. I, like many others, recognized grace when President Jimmy Carter faced the press to talk about his cancer. Courage was once described as grace under pressure. But I cannot precisely define grace.

Though my examples of grace above are both people who have lived many years, I have seen grace in younger people, too, whose equanimity and peace emanate, I am sure, from grace. One such youngster is Malala Yousafzai, the Pakistani girl shot by the Taliban for the crime of wanting an education.

If a person claims to have grace, he doesn’t. Grace is a state, not a trait. If Paul is right, though, there are “innumerable riches of grace.” Who would not want that?

I don’t know what Dad said in his sermon that Sunday. Likely, he told stories, like Mark did, that gave the congregation glimpses of grace.

I like to see grace even though I have not yet fully understood what grace is. I’m thinking you might, too.

I know it is amazing.

Daniel E. White

October 1, 2015