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Near the end of Annie Hall, Alvy and Annie are dividing their property. Looking at a stack of books, Annie says:
Now, look, all the books with death and dying are yours, and all the poetry books are mine.
If you changed the character names to Mexico and America, you would just about sum about the respective attitudes of each nation toward death.
Death is a timely topic. It is always, of course.
But death rides high this week in Mexico -- with its Day of the Dead celebrations.
I drove to the local cemetery today and yesterday. It is a fair distance to drive from town. When I got there, I found a couple cars and a few knots of relatives in the cemetery. Hardly the mob scene I had been told to anticipate.
I stopped, but decided not to intrude with my camera. After all, I would feel a bit violated if a stranger with a camera elbowed into our family's Memorial Day grave decoration ceremony.
The celebration caused me to organize some thoughts I have been mulling over during the last few weeks.
Mexicans seem to have a natural relationship with death. Perhaps because it seems that much closer to people who have few material goods. Or it could be the effect that Roman Catholicism has had on the general public. As Anne Lamott points out "a basic tenet of the Christian faith is that death is really just a major change of address."
Whatever the reason, their remembrance of their dead relatives through stylized demonstrations is not emotional on the surface. In fact, it appears to be quite loving.
Americans do not share that view of death. I have several friends who will not discuss it with me. An American doctor friend tells me that he is amazed at how many of his patients say "if I die," rather than "when I die." Another young friend told me he thinks that death will be conquered by science by the time he gets to be my age (40 more years).
Of course, there are exceptions. I have been fascinated with death all of my life. And another friend told me recently that he has been hiding his fascination with the topic because everyone else thinks he is weird to discuss it.
That is why an American newspaper could run a headline "Mexico death museum lives up to morbid name" with a story about the Mexican National Museum of Death. The story goes on to refer to "the country's macabre interest in kicking the bucket."
Morbid? Macabre? Simply because the topic is death.
When I read Babs's post yesterday morning, several pieces came together. She wrote about the emotional turmoil that she went through when building an altar for her daughter: Jennifer's Altar. But when the altar was complete, she felt a sense of peace.
I suspect that is what we Americans attempt to avoid when discussing death. We want the peace on the cheap -- without the emotional turmoil.
Yesterday I did not feel well. I ended up sleeping most of the day. But my death thoughts seem to have triggered something.
I had a dream. I was in a strange apartment. There was a knock at the door. I opened it, and there stood a liveried chauffeur. No idea who he was. But he said: "Sir, the car is ready."
I followed him down two flights of stairs to an urban street where a Duesenberg J awaited. He opened the door. I got in.
Even though I was alone; I was not alone. There were about eight other people in the car. But they were ethereal. My dad. My grandmother. My Aunt Bessie. Some people I have not yet met.
But they were all looking forward. No social interchange at all.
But that is what I get for thinking too much on this topic.
Of course, it would have been a far better tale if it had been a carriage and my fellow passenger was Miss Emily Dickinson.
Because we could have shared our books -- of poetry and death.
Death is a timely topic. It is always, of course.
But death rides high this week in Mexico -- with its Day of the Dead celebrations.
I drove to the local cemetery today and yesterday. It is a fair distance to drive from town. When I got there, I found a couple cars and a few knots of relatives in the cemetery. Hardly the mob scene I had been told to anticipate.
I stopped, but decided not to intrude with my camera. After all, I would feel a bit violated if a stranger with a camera elbowed into our family's Memorial Day grave decoration ceremony.
The celebration caused me to organize some thoughts I have been mulling over during the last few weeks.
Mexicans seem to have a natural relationship with death. Perhaps because it seems that much closer to people who have few material goods. Or it could be the effect that Roman Catholicism has had on the general public. As Anne Lamott points out "a basic tenet of the Christian faith is that death is really just a major change of address."
Whatever the reason, their remembrance of their dead relatives through stylized demonstrations is not emotional on the surface. In fact, it appears to be quite loving.
Americans do not share that view of death. I have several friends who will not discuss it with me. An American doctor friend tells me that he is amazed at how many of his patients say "if I die," rather than "when I die." Another young friend told me he thinks that death will be conquered by science by the time he gets to be my age (40 more years).
Of course, there are exceptions. I have been fascinated with death all of my life. And another friend told me recently that he has been hiding his fascination with the topic because everyone else thinks he is weird to discuss it.
That is why an American newspaper could run a headline "Mexico death museum lives up to morbid name" with a story about the Mexican National Museum of Death. The story goes on to refer to "the country's macabre interest in kicking the bucket."
Morbid? Macabre? Simply because the topic is death.
When I read Babs's post yesterday morning, several pieces came together. She wrote about the emotional turmoil that she went through when building an altar for her daughter: Jennifer's Altar. But when the altar was complete, she felt a sense of peace.
I suspect that is what we Americans attempt to avoid when discussing death. We want the peace on the cheap -- without the emotional turmoil.
Yesterday I did not feel well. I ended up sleeping most of the day. But my death thoughts seem to have triggered something.
I had a dream. I was in a strange apartment. There was a knock at the door. I opened it, and there stood a liveried chauffeur. No idea who he was. But he said: "Sir, the car is ready."
I followed him down two flights of stairs to an urban street where a Duesenberg J awaited. He opened the door. I got in.
Even though I was alone; I was not alone. There were about eight other people in the car. But they were ethereal. My dad. My grandmother. My Aunt Bessie. Some people I have not yet met.
But they were all looking forward. No social interchange at all.
But that is what I get for thinking too much on this topic.
Of course, it would have been a far better tale if it had been a carriage and my fellow passenger was Miss Emily Dickinson.
Because we could have shared our books -- of poetry and death.