What I recall

I love watching the DVD commentaries on movies or tv shows. I always find the behind-the-scenes crew interesting and I jump at the opportunity to be one of them. I don't think there is an aspect of production that I find boring -- from writing, to prop creation, camera angles, and coffee-fetching, it all looks so interesting.

I gobble down as much of the show "Mad Men" as I possibly can. Whenever I get a new DVD set of a season, I watch the episode first and then go back and listen to the commentary. I especially like listening to the commentary with the show's creator, Matthew Weiner, because he gives insight into the plot and characters as well as how the show strives to keep period attitudes and sets.

The fourth season of "Mad Men" takes place in 1963 and at one point a character's daughter is planning a wedding for November 23, 1963. I immediately thought "Oh, that is going to be the day after the Kennedy assassination". In the DVD commentary, Matthew Weiner also hints at this event.

Then the assassination episode happens. For reasons I could not explain, I was bawling when it is revealed that president Kennedy died. The only humor I could find was when the daughter finds out and is bawling her eyes out because her wedding is the next day. It was very rude of the president to die right before her wedding!

I could not put my finger on why the Kennedy assassination episode struck such an emotional spot with me. When I listened to the commentary on the episode, Matthew Weiner talks about how he and the other writers wanted it to feel like September 11th -- the feeling that the world is changing and one's faith in all institutions is shaken. My emotions during the episode then made sense because I remember how unsettling that day was.

I was in my senior year of college in September of 2001. All was going well. I was with wonderful friends, my boyfriend had moved back to Santa Fe from Seattle and had a job, and I was at a school I loved. I tend to rise at a decent hour (7 a.m.) and got up at my usual time, grabbed my towel, and proceeded to the shower for one of my infamous (among my roommates at least) hour-long showers. I was just washing the conditioner out when my friend Erin (Irene) poked her head through the outer curtain to let me know that "planes", "New York", "Twin Towers", "dead", and "on radio".

I replied "huh?" and said I would attend when I got out the shower.

We listened on our radios tuned to the local NPR station as we heard that two planes had struck the twin towers in New York and the Pentagon. Wide eyed and ears tuned to everything, I dressed and got ready for breakfast. I remember the newscaster breaking the broadcast and saying "We are probably going to hear more about this in the weeks to come, so we are going to switch over to our normal programming."

Stunned by his attitude, I went to breakfast in the student center.

On a normal morning at St. John's College in Santa Fe, the placita at 8 a.m. is sparsely populated and if there is anyone there, he is moving slowly, a cigarette dangling from drool crusted mouth and a black cup of coffee (in a measuring cup) is in one hand while the other holds a copy of a lab manual for a 9 o'clock class.

The placita that morning was a buzz -- students and faculty everywhere, talking, smoking, wide-eyed, awake. I ate my breakfast and chatted with others about the events. I learned a plane crashed in Pennsylvania and classes were cancelled. There was a meeting in the Great Hall where a projector was set up with a broadcast of news. I went back to my room. Sure enough, the broadcast had resumed and I am sure the commentator who wanted to go on with normal programming was fired. I called Lance to "make sure he wasn't traveling anywhere". "Um, no," Lance responded, "why would I? Of course I am ok. Yeh, I love you too. See ya."

TV reception in Santa Fe is extremely spotty. If one expects to get a clear picture of a TV station, one needs to shell out money for cable. St. John's budget did not allow for such luxuries (and rightfully so, in my opinion). Students piled into the Great Hall to see grainy images of news bulletins on the screen where we normally watched films. I recalled that several students were from New York or had parents who worked in the Pentagon. I found folks, I made inquiries, and it seemed that all was well. Some were nervous because they had family or friends who were supposed to travel that day. A fellow in my core group had a mom who worked in the Pentagon. "She's fine," he answered in response to my inquiry, "but she said all the generals are running around totally pissed about all of this."

John Balkom was the president of the college at the time and came forward to speak and just give a summary of what had happened and what the plans for the day were at the college. We were going to have a community seminar and resume classes tomorrow. The college would continue to project the news on the screen. Planes were grounded, so it was not possible for anyone to return home to see family. Mr. Balkom then opened the floor to questions.

A friendly acquaintance, Lucia, asked "Is our country at war?". There were murmurs, mostly embarrassed for her, but some with nodding heads. "I do not know," Mr. Balkom repilied, "I am sure we will find out if that happens."

"If there is," Lucia said later to me, "I will fight. I will join the army and I will fight." I don't know if she ever did.

There would be a break, community seminar, and dinner. I talked with Daniel Bethencourt (now Fr. Daniel) and he said "weren't we just on the mountain, having a great time eating s'mores?" The Saturday before we had gone up to the ski basin for a campfire instead of attending S & C, a dance which "inducts" the freshmen to the more carnal aspects of St. John's. It was lovely to be with friends. I still had apples and marshmallows in the living room from the event.

The phone rang when I was back in my dorm. Elizabeth Starr had called to say there was a special prayer service at noon at St. Juliana's. I said I would be there and put the left over apples in a basket to take to church figuring someone would want to eat.

It turned out to be the prayer service that is described in the novel "War and Peace". Tolstoy describes the scene from Natasha's point of view: Napoleon is invading, they are on cushions kneeling in church to supplicate God to deliver them, and she is confused by all of this. It descibed my experience minus the cushions. We prostrated, we prayed, and we hoped against hope that it would never happen again. The sky in New Mexico was that bluest blue but not marred by airplane tracks as it normally was. It was eerie and my life seemed more uncertain. I handed out apples after the service. "Oh," responded David Starr (now Fr. David), "thank you, thank you. I don't think I have eaten today."

I got back to campus, my mind still whirling with the prayers, wondering about Lucia's comment regarding war, and now fearful for how it would change my life. I said this in the community seminar I was in and I am sure it was just a babble of selfish nonsense about how I didn't know what this meant for everyone. Would we become some war-torn country? Would Lance be drafted before we got married? Not that he had proposed, but it was something we were talking about with each other.

Jessica Godden responded in a very mater-of-fact way: "I know that I can only do what I can do. I am focusing on what I can do in this situation..." and then some other things that I am sure were soul satisfying to some but only got half way there for me. I knew I had to trust in God and that pray was the only thing I could really do. I couldn't' change events, I couldn't rewind and make it all better. I could only trust, pray, put my hope in God, and love those around me.

Later Lance reminded me that he had asthma and there was no way he would be drafted if the draft was in fact reinstated.

That evening in our suite, my roommates and I crowded around my small TV, tyring to get the rabbit ears to detect some sort of signal. We were able to get ABC news with some clarity. The image was grainy, but I remember seeing the second plane hit and saying "Oh my gosh, it isn't even a day old and they already have doctored up some image to coincide with the news." I think it was Theresa Campbell who said to me, "Juliana, that isn't an image -- that is actually footage." My jaw dropped.

The days and months that followed are of course blurred. I remember that Friday St. Juliana's had an Akathist for the Dead service and I missed singing "Sicut Cervus" at the memorial service St. John's held. Story after story was told about what people saw and felt. One story struck me of a father having to talk to his daughter about the tradegy as she was able to see the world trade center from her daycare. The little girl told her father that she saw birdies on fire. He was shaken not knowing how to tell her those were bodies. At bedtime, as her sleepiness helped her mind open up, she told her father that she knew those were not birdies. Her father felt in some way she was trying to protect him from further grief.

A year later there were protests and Santa Fe, and all, over regarding the war in Iraq. I was devastated to hear about the decision. Member of my family, both distant and close, have served. I know it has changed my cousin forever.

The little details of that day I am sure will fade away, so I am glad I had some opportunity to get them down and reflect on what my mind held as important. The feeling, the soul-tearing feeling, will always be with me and rise to the surface every September 11th.

The 40th Day

I grew up Seventh-Day Adventist (SDA) which means my family went to church on Saturday, I didn't eat pork (and was encouraged to be vegetarian), I didn't wear make-up or jewelry, I didn't read novels or play with occult themes (no ghosts, Ouija boards, witches, etc.), and I was not to listen to secular music, watch movies, or dance. Oh, and no caffeine.

Of course, as with any religion, I did just about all of these with or without the aid of my family. My father and mother love movies and dancing, so I saw LOTS of movies and danced all the time. We are also big coffee drinkers, though now I prefer a soy chai latte. I think my mother had a problem with her daughter knowing the lyrics of some questionable songs, so she began to listen to Christian (read "protestant") radio stations. I listened to some of the music, but I was far more into U2 and eventually jazz and classical music. I was a vegetarian by choice and don't really eat that much pork -- though, sausage is often my downfall. I still to this day do not wear make-up often, which Lance appreciates as he has been scared of clowns, Santa Claus, etc. since he was young. In fact, he still is a bit weary of women who wear to much make up -- as if they have something to hide. I love jewelry though! I got my ears pierced when I was 18. I remember my father was aghast. He said "what else did you get pierced???". An ear is hardly a bellybutton, a nose, or some other part of the anatomy that could be pierced.

Obviously, I have not remained Seventh-Day Adventist. As soon as I turned 18, I started going to a Unitarian church on Sunday mornings and started reading the Torah in an attempt to become Jewish. Then, finally, I found a spiritual home in Orthodox Christianity and converted. Or so I thought.

My grandfather passed away 40 days ago. He was an interesting man. He was born in Mexico, married my grandmother after flirting with her at his mother's funeral, and moved here reluctantly after a hurricane hit Tampico and destroyed the family's livelihood. He always wanted to go back to Mexico, and I am sure the Republican party that he supported would have been more than happy to send him back. I still remember him saying "Viva Bush!!!" (though it sounded more like "Viva Booo-shhh!!!"). He was a drinker and smoker and a womanizer -- all of which lead to the abuse of his family, his body, and, later, depression. He was injured as a roofer and could no longer make a good wage and his family had to rely on charity, which I believe angered him. He took it out on them -- though in good times, I suspect, he was quite kind.

He loved his family though, and in time chose them instead of all the pleasures the world can offer. He developed diabetes, and ignored it. He cursed during soccer games, and I repeated the words (which I got in trouble for doing). He was raised Catholic and did not like the SDA church that my grandmother attended. Later in life, when diabetes claimed two toes and when it began to fuse vertebrae, he chose to be baptized in the SDA church and try to turn his life toward the good.

He was always kind to me, smiled when he saw me, and inquired as to how I was doing or what I was studying. When I went to Greece, Italy, and Turkey and asked what he wanted me to bring him back, he requested a little dirt from each place. So, on my trip, I collected a little earth from each place: Rhodes, Ephesus, and Pompeii. I put them in little glass jars and decorated them with the names of the places (per my mother's instruction). He liked those little jars and all of the other little things he received as gifts from me: a wooden duck and a set of matrushkas. I understand now where my love of tiny objects of delight come from as well as a love of travel -- and a fiery temper and great sense of style (he always had cool hats).

In the back of my mind, I knew he would be my first grandparent to die. He was not in the best of health and he was so very weak. I used think I would be able to emotionally handle his repose and I would be able to sing at his funeral. When the time came, when I heard of his death, I was shaken to my core. There are people that you think will always be here and then they are not. It is not as if I have never experienced the death of someone I loved, but a grandparent is just that strong foundation into one's past and it is difficult to see it washed away by waves of time. You know it will happen, but when the tide comes in and they are taken, it hurts beyond measure.

It was difficult to see his body, cold and not smiling. I was reminded of when my great-grandfather passed away and there was no jolly countenance -- the familiar "hey hey" he would say when he saw you. It is in that moment of seeing the body without soul you realize they are truly no more on this earth.

I thought I had fully converted to Orthodoxy until I realized I still do not understand how the church views death. I would hear all of the SDA pastors and family members say "he is sleeping", but he isn't. The SDA teaches death as a sort of "coma" -- the soul does not leave the body, but hangs out in hibernation until the coming of Christ. I grew up with this teaching and when I compare it with what the Orthodox church says, there is overlap, but they do not agree.

I do believe what Orthodox theologians tell me: the soul departs from the body and therefore it is important that we pray for our loved ones so their souls can be at ease.

The SDA church has a difficulty with this teaching. I am not sure where their idea of the soul still resides in the body comes from, as it is obviously not biblically based (see Christ's Gospel teaching about Lazarus and rich man). Having grown up with this idea my whole life, I was always skeptical about ghosts and after-life experiences as well as the Catholic teachings on purgatory.

As an Orthodox Christian, I understand that it is important to bury after three days and on the ninth day one should also pray because the soul faces judgment before God and is then assigned a place either with God or without God. Obviously, to be with God would be preferable as the human soul is designed to reside with It. However, if one has not in her time on earth loved God or sought after Him, it is more difficult for the soul to chose to reside with God or for God to chose the soul to reside with It. (I use "Him" and "It" interchangeably as a pronoun for God, as God truly has no gender, but on earth He was manifest as God and male MAN, so "He" is also an appropriate pronoun).

Still, I am confused. I am not sure where the third, ninth, and fortieth day traditions come from or how the church fathers can verify all of the teachings on death. My ultimate confusion comes from this question: where is the soul of Grandfather right now? Is it ok? I have prayed on the ninth day for him and will pray today that he is where the just repose. But is he there? Or where is he? Is he suffering? I am so confused and terrorized by these thoughts. Of course I also selfishly think: what will happen when I die? And will my listening to Amy Winehouse somehow take me away from God? Or is there something more to eternal salvation?

I hope in order to reside with God I need to follow God's two big commandments: love Him and love everyone too. I think if I truly loved God, it will be easier and less confusing for me to love everyone else. I always have to remind myself that God loves everyone -- without exception. The itinerant who harasses me in the grocery store, the woman talking on her cellphone while driving, the flamboyant trannie on Capital Hill (with AMAZING shoes) -- God loves each of them and I love them too.

I have been trying to get through Father Seraphim Rose's book "The Soul after Death", but it is a weighty read after a day of caring for Nina. Besides, it is not something I wanted to read before going in for gallbladder surgery. My goal was to finish the book before the fortieth day, but alas, that has not happened. Instead, I will say the Cannon for the Dead for my Grandfather and continue to read about what happens to our souls when we die.

I often recall the "wager" from Pascal's "Le Pensees" -- we gamble when we believe in God. We can risk giving up eternal peace for earthly things or risk pleasures for nothing at all. I don't believe that there is nothing after death; all of the love I feel must mean something is there and I hope I can experience a greater love with God when my time comes. I will continue to pray for those who have departed before me because I love them, because I have hope that I will be able to meet them again in some far better way than I experienced them on earth, and we will all be at peace and love with God.

MOTHER!!!

So, my great-uncle Vincent recently reposed. It is amazing to me that I knew my great-grandparents siblings and I consider myself quite fortunate. Tio Vicente was a really kind and funny man - he and his wife Virginia were the best of people. I really feel for Tia Virginia; I cannot imagine losing my husband. I know she has her children and grandchildren to comfort her along with our whole family.

I went on the tribal pages website to see if any news was on there, but everyone in Texas is rather busy and I know it will take some time before any pics go up from the funeral.

I strolled down memory lane, looking at pictures of my family...events...old pictures of my ancestors (what a weird idea, but I guess that is who they are) when they were younger...

Here are some of my favorites:



Check out the bow on my great-grandma Sophia! She was rockin' it. I did not know she had a sister Virginia who died at age 18.



And here are Great-grandma Sophia and Great-grandpa Jose (Joe) -- they are so beautiful here. They would later go on to have 9 kids (though I think there were two who reposed along the way), divorce, and then go on to have three more -- each of them!

Whoa.

Great-grandpa Joe and Great-Uncle Vincent were brothers. It is funny, but I knew them as Grandpa Joe and Tio Vicente -- we are not formal in our family, thankfully.



My Grandpa recently celebrated his 80th birthday! And he still looks this good - seriously. He is the titanium grandpa -- he drove himself to the hospital when he was having a heart attack. I did not inherit his pain threshold AT ALL. Both of my grandparents look stunning in here -- I wish I had inherited my grandmother's looks. She is still super cute too :D

Speaking of good looks...here is why I titled my post "MOTHER!!!"



Of ALL the pictures she has of me, she chooses our bad 80s glamour shots???

????????????????????

I guess because she looks good. Check out my EYEBROWS -- I mean they are pretty bad now, but I could have easily been Frida Kahlo. Just photoshop in a spider monkey and it is a whole new picture. I have NEVER worn that much make-up since, not even on my wedding day.

Speaking of which...



Well, Lance looks good in this one. I know I am a nerd, but do we really need to showcase that fact on Tribal Pages. Seriously -- I know I kinda dashed my mother's dreams of a fairly-tale wedding for her one and only daughter by having a kegger at church, but of all those wedding photos THIS IS THE ONE she chooses.

:|

At least I am holding an icon. But I am a stick figure; if I remember correctly, I was about 90 lbs - gross! By gross I mean TOO SKINNY. And I cannot believe I have gained 40 lbs since the wedding...double gross.

Gah! I will have to send Aunt Bea some new pics where I don't look like such a dweeb...if such pictures exist.

Anne Berven -- Memory Eternal

I gave up "internet surfing" for Lent...kind of. I decided I would only check in with people's blogs. While reading Larissa's hilarious posts on Writing in Apathy, I came across her entry on Anne Berven's repose.

Very sad - she taught me so much. She introduced me to early music and made me fall in love with Rachmaninoff. I know the words to the Cherubic Hymn in Slavonic because of singing in chamber choir (well before I became Orthodox).

You always imagine that someone will always be there - that you can go back to a place and always find that person there.

I just can't believe I will never get to see her or sing with her again.

The Blog in Her Honor

May her soul dwell where the righteous are and may her memory be eternal.

Marcel Fremont -- Memory Eternal

On Friday Erin Hanlon called me to tell me that Marcel Fremont had died.  She had received an email from Rebecca Sugars and didn't remember if we knew him or not.  I didn't quite hear her at first because I was opening the screen door to cool off our hot condo.  After many contextual clues, I caught the importance of what she was saying.

I personally did not know Marcel, but my hubby did and I said I would relay the message.  When he got home, I told him about Marcel.  He was shocked - I wondered if it was true.  The message could have been relayed incorrectly - perhaps he was just injured.  The hubby didn't think so -- he thought if anyone knew it would be Rebecca, who was a close friend of Marcel's. 

We were both hesitant in reporting this to anyone, but last night Andrei Maciag called to let my hubby know too.

And we were given this website: Marcel Fremont

I personally did not know Marcel well and would not feel comfortable posting a comment there, but I would like to write a little something here.

I remember seeing Marcel my first year at St. John's and thinking him one of the best looking men ever.  He was just very handsome and seemed genuinely kind.  Jen Rogers once recalled seeing him dance in the rain in the uppers courtyard and finding it one of the most beautiful things she ever did see (or at least by her Senior year).

Perhaps it was because we were at small community at St. John's, but there was this inexplicable way that you knew people's names.  So it was with Marcel -- I knew his name, his face, probably exchanged two words with him.

And yet his reputation was one of absolute goodness.  He was known for thoughtful comments in seminar, his music, his helpfulness, his loyalty as a friend, and his playful energy and humor.  There were plenty of people at St. John's who had a less than stellar reputation or no reputation at all, but I think Marcel stood out as a leader.

Which is why his early death is such a sting to those who hear it.  It is a tragedy and we can only hope that people will remember his goodness and try to emulate it in the world.  It is terrible to lose someone so early in life and even more difficult to comprehend when someone so good leaves this earth.

Marcel -- May Your Memory Be Eternal.