I'm second generation Irish on my father's side. Mazillionth generation mutt on my mother's side (thank god for my mother's genes). I've had a decades long love/hate relationship with my Irish ancestry. While I hate the parochialism, racism and pseudo-superiority complex in my own family (and others), I love the facility of language, music, humor and most especially celebration of death.
The Irish I know are gossips and scholars; scolds and fatalists. They admire and hate the Catholic hierarchy. They drink, fuck, dance and mourn. For me, their best attribute is to know when to revile the dead -- and it is rarely when the corpse is warm.
Historically, the Irish would "dress" the recently deceased themselves and then hold the wake either in the home or pub. Snuff was the Irish petit fours, but in more recent times, it was placed in a saucer on the corpse's chest so "mourners" could be restricted in their partaking. Keeners were professionals whose sole purpose was to wail long enough to make sure the dead were dead. Many folks who partook in poteen, which was distilled through lead pipes, weren't actually dead, but in a lead induced coma. It was believed that if the keeners wailed loudly enough, they would "wake the dead."
My family has had numerous Irish wakes: three of which were notable. My Uncle Pat, an (in)famous MD trial attorney, attracted two groups besides family and friends -- bartenders (mourning) Insurance lawyers (rejoicing). My Dad had the most glorious wake and funeral I've ever attended. Four years hence, my mother's fellow parishioners marvel at the glory of it. My sister died at 47 and her "wake" was filled with pictures and her gorgeous needlework of her daughter's Irish step dancing dresses.
What is it about an Irish wake that makes it remarkable? Well, I think it is the fact that those who knew the deceased felt comfortable bad-mouthing before the death and then, after the wake -- but in a humorous manner. There is a kind of perversion here -- but the perversion of negativity has a hiatus for a couple of days.
I've read numerous diaries here which announce the deaths of conservatives. The immediate vitriol is off-putting. Strangers to the deceased feel a need to defile the corpse as a last gasp of something or other.
Me? I always know the dead are dead. There are families who are not and perhaps one or more members of those families is a good or innocent person. I also know that dancing on a grave is never a graceful event -- it is as embarassing as dancing topless on a table.
Why did I write this diary? Who knows. I guess I just want to offer my peace and blessings today for William Safire. I don't want to be a nattering nabob of negativism. I want to enjoy my wine (snuff substitute) lift a glass and believe that the energy and atoms of every being are absorbed into something better.