I hate how people just nod their heads when the damn Republicans talk about this supposed "Culture of Life." Being a student of culture myself, I have to take issue with this, of course, but I think you all know enough yourselves about the violence and cruelty that is part of the fabric of our culture. (Though I think that would be more accurately named "Culture of Violence," but that's a different discussion.) No, what I want to examine is the very idea that there can be a "Culture of Life" or "Culture of Death."
First of all, life and death go hand in hand. People who are born will eventually die. Seems like a simple enough statement, but I really think our society forgets this.
It should be fairly obvious, but those who pass away, and those who are never born, are making room for those who are still alive. Life cannot exist without death; living cannot occur without dying. Why do we have such a hard time accepting that? Why do we have to delude ourselves into thinking that we can cheat death (somehow, someday) when cheating death means we're not being fair to life?
And dying is ugly. It seems the only way to leave this life for whatever comes after it is to experience excruciating pain, which often happens in ways that aren't pretty. Unlike other natural things (flowers, sunshine, tidal action, etc.), death is not something that most people want to see a lot of. It can really scar a person, as the nightmares of refugees, veterans, and survivors remind us.
It is painful for those of us left behind. Because face it, we don't cry for the person who died, we cry that we won't have that person around anymore.
It can hurt the lives of those still living. For instance, Shirlstars' touching adoption story began with the death of her mother's husband. When I experienced the death of a close friend, I stopped going out or seeking out company in favor of sitting in front of my computer or sleeping. Murder, it goes without saying, is horrible for those who loved the person who was killed.
But that's not death. Not all of it, anyway, the way I see it.
Death can be beautiful. Looking at the face of your loved one, who will never blink or breathe or hurt again... there's is something so touchingly beautiful about it. They don't have to worry about their Medicaid being slashed, their kids or grandkids becoming drug addicts, global warming, and all the other things that those of us who are still living have to worry about. Though they are in a place that none of us know right now ourselves, there is something about the way their bodies and memories still speak to us that makes me think they find a peace we can only dream about.
Death is also a release. Forget about Terry for a minute. My dad's dad died this summer. I wasn't sorry to see him go. The last thing I remember him doing was yelling at me that I needed to get scholarships; boy, he knew how to convince a girl! My dad and I have talked a little about the legacy of alcoholism and violence that this man left behind, and I'm glad that he's finally out of the picture so that my father can try to start healing. I honestly don't think my grandpa is all that upset about his own death either, if he's still capable of thinking where he is. I can't imagine he would want to stay in this life, where he felt so much disappointment and anger. I can't imagine he misses the Alzheimers he was suffering from either.
At the same time, my great Aunt Vi is still going strong at something like 94. Selfish creature that I am, I don't want her to go. She's been one of my idols for many years, still so bright and fun in spite of her failing body. But I also know that she wished she had died at 89 like her beloved sister and mother before her, and I don't begrudge her that at all. I don't think, if she were to slip into a coma right now, that she should be forced to stay in this world.
Even my friend, who died at a very young age from circumstances which were entirely preventable and unfair... I was only sad about his death because I missed him. But the hardest part wasn't being told that if he had lived, he would have been severely brain-damaged, or hearing that he had died, or facing all his distraught friends, or having the stupid grief counsellor telling me that somehow drawing pictures would make me feel better about his death. The hardest part was when I went to visit him in the hospital the day before he died, and I saw him lying there, attached to all sorts of tubes and things. Knowing that he could hear me but couldn't do anything about it, and maybe wasn't able to identify me or even himself anymore at that point... that was the hardest part. It was hard because he seemed to have been stripped of dignity.
It wasn't his life itself that I had valued so much, but his strength, courage, love, selflessness, and even selfishness. I had loved the way he gave me a raunchy compliment the very first time he met me; the way he had encouraged me to piss in a public park while drunk; the way he had sat under a tree and talked to me about philosophy he'd read in his youth and why he had decided to live on the streets rather than in his parent's comfortable suburban home. But in the hospital, all those things were gone. He was already gone, and his body's death only restored his dignity.
So the next time I hear a Republican say they support a "Culture of Life," I think we should all say, "I support a Culture of Dignity."