day 27 -- monks and ringing cell phones

This afternoon, I went to a funeral.  The deceased was the grandmother of my sister-in-law, a woman who I am quite certain I never even once spoke to.  In truth, she had only lived in the US for a handful of years and spoke absolutely no English.  But as is often the case when it comes to attending funerals, they have more to do with the survivors than the deceased.

As tends to be my custom regarding all events/meetings/appointments, I arrived to the service approximately 15 minutes late – and as I was one of perhaps five other white people – I was happy by that point, the service was standing room only.  I gladly took a spot near my mom and friend from childhood in a nook in the rear of the chapel where I could neither see the speakers due to my obstructed vantage point nor understand them as they mainly spoke in Burmese. 

Nevertheless, I was very vigilant about not doing anything that could in anyway be considered culturally inappropriate, except for my tardiness, or generally poor form at a funeral as sometimes I feel my sister-in-law’s family considers my family a bit brutish.  In truth, the main reason I was going was born out of a strange sense of obligation as they had all attended my grandmother’s funeral a few years back and thought it very possible me not going might alone add to their general regard of my clan as being a bunch of unrefined hicks (ha, ha). 

So there I stood smugly in the nook, not dressed in black but instead in somber, modest earth tones because I was recognized black to be the western/American funeral tradition and didn’t want to assume it was universal.  I ran through my mental check list of otherwise non-offensive behaviors – cell phone on silent, I followed along diligently in the program, I did not talk to my neighbors and I fought off all urges to either peruse the James Monroe memorabilia strangely displayed in the nook or to text message. 

And as the funeral winded to a close, and the parade of monks were walking down the chapel’s main aisle, I was proud I hadn’t blown it.  In fact, I was studying the colors of the monk’s robes – brilliant shades of bright orange and deep crimson when a cell phone rang.  I was confident it wasn’t mine because the ring was different and I knew I had set it to silent.  In fact, soaked in self-righteousness, I judged the yokel who had lacked the common sense and consideration to silence their cell phone at such a somber event when, the younger of the two monks, began wrestling with the sort of pocket in his robe to retrieve the ringing cell phone.  All of in the nook couldn’t help but laugh, who would have ever guessed the monk as being the culprit and owner of the ringing cell phone. Maybe it was the Dalai Lama calling.