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(aka Bike) Part 959 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad
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The service was being run by some woman who seemed to have some familiarity with crematorium protocols. I was briefly introduced to her–Marjorie was her name. She wasn’t TG as far as I could tell.
It seemed to be a cross between a celebration of a life and a farewell to a friend. I explained that I wasn’t reading a lesson but a poem which I considered appropriate. She told me that was fine and she would ask me to do the reading as and when.
There was some music, some prayers, some singing and I was called to do the reading. “Lady Catherine Cameron will now do a reading.” She nodded at me and I walked to the front of the chapel.
“I’m sorry to say that I didn’t know your friend Mitzi, but my involvement was through one of her friends who loaned her a bag with my name and address in it. The police found this at the accident and I was asked to identify the body. So sadly, I met your friend once but after she had died. I was asked to do some sort of reading for this and after much searching for something suitable, I found this poem by the modern Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas. It’s called, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
I read the poem, reasonably well–no hesitations, at a reasonable speed and my enunciation was reasonable too. People nodded to me as I went back to my seat, and Marjorie thanked me.
Marjorie then read some more prayers and did the committal part of the service, whereupon everyone was given the opportunity to file past the coffin and say a quick goodbye–it was very moving. There were loads of tears, then the curtain came across and the coffin was sent on its way to the fire.
It was just after half past eleven when we filed out the door and out into the area outside where people go to view the flowers. I had an envelope with some money in it to give to the undertaker if there was some charitable cause being supported.
My plan was to wait a few minutes then disappear as quickly as I could. Of course, the best laid plans... Maureen came to thank me for my reading, she thought it was beautiful–the only other stuff was more remote, and by John Donne–hence my choice of Dylan Thomas, whose poetry I enjoy.
While Maureen was still talking to me, one or two people, some obvious tg, some effeminate looking males–who were either cross-dressers or in drab, prior to transitioning–I assumed, because that was what it felt like.
I wasn’t very comfortable, I was amongst strangers with no clear role and I wanted to be on my way. However, it would have been rude to just dash off.
“That poem was brill, how did you find it?” asked someone whom I’d never met before.
“I did it in school,” I replied.
“I’ve never been one much for poetry, but that just hit the spot.”
“Yes, it often does when the words are speaking to the heart as well as the mind.”
“I’d never thought of it like that. Thank you.” They shook my hand and left.
“Aren’t you the lady who did the dormouse programme on the telly?”
I blushed, damn now they had something to track me down with, “Um, yes, I was involved with it.”
“Yeah, it was really good.”
“It was a team effort.” I tried to minimise my association with it the opposite to my usual position.
After several questions like this, Marjorie came to speak with me. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
I was completely perplexed, I had no idea who she was. “In general or with regard to this morning?”
“Both.” She smiled enigmatically at me.
“No I don’t, although I think you did a wonderful job in there.”
“Cathy Cameron, nee Watts. I’ve watched your career for the last couple of years with interest. I’m the dean’s secretary, now do you recognise me.”
I felt the customary heat wave pass up from my feet to end somewhere about my scalp and I went very red. “Yes, now I do. I’m sorry I should have done so earlier but I don’t do much at the department at the moment.”
“No, I know, you have another film to make–how is that going?”
“Not very well–the weather has been awful and my cameraman has been ill. We haven’t even completed the final draft of the script yet, so can’t set our shooting schedule.”
“Never mind, it’s supposed to improve for a few days.”
“With six kids to look after, it’s not the highest priority.”
“Six, my goodness–you like to complicate your life don’t you?”
“I’ve just adopted three of them, with foster orders on the others.”
“I suppose you can’t have children.”
“Marjorie, I’d have thought you’d have known that.”
“I was just checking, you look so natural, I wondered f you were one of the intersex types.”
“No, and I’d be obliged if you don’t blow my cover now.”
“I won’t, although it’s in the public domain for those who wish to look, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Look, I have to go–Simon could only spare an hour or so to watch the kids.”
“Well thanks for your reading, it was splendid–you must have Welsh blood in you somewhere.”
“Possibly, I come from Bristol, and the buggers keep swimming the river to rape and pillage.”
“Isn’t there a bridge there now?” she looked astonished at my comment.
“Hush, don’t tell them, they’ll be over even more often.”
She laughed, “Thank you for coming.”
I gave her a hard look and hesitated, she cocked her head at me, inviting the question. “What are you to the deceased, to Mitzi.”
“I’m her grandmother,” a tear filled her eye and I gave my condolences and left.
There were probably about thirty people there, most were women or at least dressed as such, many were crying. There were a handful of men or I suspected, would be women, if they had the opportunity, perhaps having to dash off to work or lacking confidence. It remained to be seen, how many of them recognised me and put two and two together–oh well, if they do they do. I honoured a promise for good or bad.
I no longer feel a need to disclose my past to anyone who doesn’t absolutely need to know. No one there fell into that category. I drove home, glad to change out of the formal navy suit I wore and my hat. I hope I wasn’t overdressed, only one or two wore hats–but it was a chapel and traditionally women keep their heads covered, even us agnostics.
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For those
who want to hear the poem read, which was written on the death of his father, click on the link below.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vNvujNd1gLw&NR=1
Angharad
Angharad
Dylan Thomas
Vote Vote Vote Vote Vote Vote Vote Vote Vote Vote
I thought the villanelle by Dylan Thomas—apparently written for his dying father—was an excellent choice.
They say that what goes around comes around, but it was surprising to see Cathy meeting her past in the form of Marjorie.
Poetic Speaking
Bike Archive
Bike Resources
Funerals
I seem to have reached an age when funerals are becoming an increasingly common thing. I haven't been to a wedding for years, perhaps because youngsters don't bother these days. I doubt if we would have bothered if we were starting out now rather than 40 years ago. It's worrying when a lot of the funerals are for people younger than we are - and not caused by accidents either. It's a sign we should be taking Dylan Thomas to heart, perhaps, although IIRC he wasn't all that old when he shuffled off his mortal coil. I must say the very best funeral I ever attended was a humanist one for a cycling friend who was an atheist, like me, and it was more moving and sincere than any tedious religious service I've ever had to sit through.
I'm not a great poetry aficionado but I have a soft spot for Thomas, certainly the one Cathy chose but more so 'Under Milk Wood' his somewhat irreverent prose/poetry play about the small Welsh fishing village of Llareggub ('bugger all' backwards) written for radio. Worth listening to, particularly with Richard Burton as the narrator.
Anyway, all this is just to congratulation Cathy (and, of course, Angharad) for navigating those particularly tricky shoals with such skill.
Robi
Please Erin…
…think of a cunning plan or program so we can vote again. Moving and emotional episodes like the above deserve loads of votes, and loads of tissues—or am I just being an old softy?
Gabi.
PS. Adored the poem, Ang.
Gabi.
Approbation
Apologies for the unnoteworthy comment, but I just wanted to register my usual approval of The Dorbike Adventures, latest episode.
Carry on.
Thank you, Angharad, for another of your excellent Bike episodes
Thank you, Angharad, for another of your excellent Bike episodes.
You always get my vote.
I wonder what the fallout will be, if any, from other people at the ceremony recognizing Cathy? Will some contact her and ask for help? Will they want to make Cathy a reluctant representative of the TG/TS community?
Kris
Kris
{I leave a trail of Kudos as I browse the site. Be careful where you step!}
here
heres looking forward to more bike for along time
thanks with hugs from sarav
Bike pt 959
What a beautiful poem. And noe Marjorie seems to be about to enter the picture. is she like Cathy?
May Your Light Forever Shine
May Your Light Forever Shine
Cathy certainly did select a
Cathy certainly did select a wonderful poem to read. It too, is one of my favorites and conveys a lot of meaning. This little chapter setting where Cathy meets Mitzi's grandmother, who also just happens to be the Dean's secretary is very sweet and endearing even tho the meeting took place at a sad time. Cathy apparently lifted Marjorie's saddness as she did some others that were there. Jan
Interesting...
The dean's secretary, no less. Small world, isn't it. And, the grandmother, too. Poor lady, loosing her child.
Quite a moving service from all indications, and the poem felt good. It appeared that the deceased was able to go to the flames as she would have wanted, not made to look like the guy she apparently didn't want to be. I hope, when my time comes, that I'll be able to be myself as well. Come to think of it, if I can't see it that way, I'll just skip the event.
Thanks,
Annette
A sad episode
but then funerals are not normally a cheerful occasion, But at least the last moments of Mitzi's service were enlivened by the reading of Dylan Thomas's heartfelt poem....It was i thought a well thought out choice by Cathy, And one which was much appreciated by Mitzi's friends and family
Kirri
Life is short
... don't ever take each sunrise for granted as night will fall for all of us sometime.
This episode is less about being trans and more about a person's contract with life; live it and wrestle all you can from it, it seldom gets revealed without effort.
Live it to its inevitable end, when we ride into the sunset - on a bike of course! :)
Kim
Great choice for the reading but
I had all confidence that Cathy would find a good reading. Laughed about the story of the Welsh swimming the river.
I think
Damn Ang, I thought you were going for soul searching, not tear jerking!
If I am allowed the chance to speak at my father's funeral, this is the thing I shall read.
Thank you for a cleansing cry and a wonderful story.
Abby
I Hate Funerals!
They always upset me so much. Crying that hard really hurts.
The last one I attended was that of a young protege of mine, a very successful young man who had started his own pharmaceutical company and who was now worth over a million pounds. For two years I had tried to help him win the fight against a brain tumour, which I had realised was the cause of his symptoms, sending him to the best place to quickly confirm the diagnosis, finding him the world's leeding experts to treat him, as he went through surgery, radiotherapy, chemotherapy, immunotherapy, accessing the newest medicines from the USA and elsewhere, that were not even available yet, and all I managed to achieve was to stretch the six months he had been given to just over two years. And I had to stand beside him and watch, helplessly, as he disintegrated as a person.
Discoverying that one is powerless hurts enough, but seeing a dear friend fall to bits hurts so much more. I held his hand as he slid into that last sleep, and could do nothing more for him.
After the horrors of the funeral, I slipped quietly away, back to my wee hoosie, and fell into an exhausted depression lasting about 3 months.
I broke up completely at the funeral. I resolved then, never to go to any other, even my own. If or when my time draws near I shall quietly walk into the sea, and never be found again. There will be no funeral for me. Meanwhile I work with SENS, engineering the halting of senescence. The Cambridge research bioscientist (Aubrey de Grey) who invented this often remarks that "there are people alive today who will live for a thousand years".
So there is still hope, my Friends.
Briar
Briar
>> people alive today who will live for a thousand years...
Good god one hopes not. One of the comforts of my own declining years is that I've outlived most of the idiots I've known, and certain types of stupidity are hard to find these days. The notion that a certain US vice presidential candidate, for example, might still be around in a millennium, or even two, is profoundly discouraging.
There comes a point when one has to make room for the next generation, but endless life would doom the world to eternal mediocrity and stagnation.
I highly recommend a perfectly wonderful book by Edith Forbes, Exit to Reality, Seal Press, 1997, for a thorough examination of the issues involved. The Matrix film, which covers some of the same ground, comes off very poorly when compared.
Cheers,
Puddin'
-
Cheers,
Puddin'
A tender heart is an asset to an editor: it helps us be ruthless in a tactful way.
--- The Chicago Manual of Style
Life is a cycle
We come, we grow and we decline and die. For those of us in the western democracies that means a cycle which is becoming longer and longer as technology and drugs extend our lifetimes. Elsewhere in poorer countries, it can be short and brutal.
The idea of living for much longer than we do now is chilling. In my lifetime I've seen the deserts grow and species disappear at a faster rate than ever. One of the baby-boomers of the fifties, I've not lived through times when this country was threatened except by financial downfall - mainly through greed and mismanagement of resources: and where the ambition of people seems to be to become fat and alcoholic - so few of them would be candidates for long life.
We live in a world dominated by a greedy and ruthless species who is less use to the planet than cockroaches, and whose ambition seems to be to increase in population until all the resources are either used up or spoiled. The main occupation of this pestilence, is warfare and material gain. Its name is mankind.
Unless we change our ideas and habits very quickly--the future is very bleak both for us and the planet.
Angharad
Angharad
I agree
The thought of living for 1000 years sounds horrifying both personally and for society/the planet as a whole. The attraction of living an infinite afterlife escapes me too. I would think the difference between heaven and hell becomes a bit blurred eventually. I suppose re-incarnation without being consciously aware of having lived before sounds the most interesting and least boring option :)
I'm approaching the last phase of my life now and I think it's bit like the end of an enjoyable holiday - one is content that it's all coming to an end. Still managing to keep myself amused though.
Robi
This is my vote
This is my vote. I adore your writing, Angharad, and the wee bits of Lallans make me feel homesick for Bonnie Scotland.
Mòran taing,
Morag NicLeoìd
Lovely poem.
The Tg word is a very small world and one invariably finds that many of their funerals are humanist.
The faiths hurt the transgendered and their teachings cut like razors especially when those that should know better, don't! and those that could do better, won't.
I have a dread of one day finding myself weak and helpless with age and being caught in the tender mercies of those who are not like us and them treating us abominabley as they wrap us in cloth we detest and preserve us in a style we detest until we go finally and angrily into that brutal night.
I keep promising myself that I'll commit suicide before succumbing to striped men's pyjamas in some ghastly old people's home.
All it takes is some duck tape and a polythene bag, then I'll go easy to that welcome night.
Not yet though, I'm only 64 and I've got a few years yet, (I hope.)
At least Mitzi, by dying. early, had her true Tg friends to see her off.
No cant, no hypocrisy, and no condemmnation.
Lucky girl.
Love and Hugs,
beverly
I agree with you.
I am hoping that I drop dead naturally. Still gotta get my will made legal.
Otherwise, I hope that I can slip off somewhere, slip beneath the icy waters, disapear with out a complaint, and not bloody my apartment with a .45. Though I am Muslim, my "loved ones" may well subject me to one of their ego boosting litanies. I had to memorize "Thanatopsis" in high school, and I look it up once in a while, nice poetry too.
Gwen
Funerals
Because of Desert Shield/Storm I get very uncomfortable in the social gatherings before and after funerals. I don't like social functions but funerals are the worst for me. The actual service however, I am fully at ease. I especially have problems at the Funeral Home during the viewing of the body. I absolutely refuse to go through the line for the viewing. However, if I am asked to participate as a pallbearer or other task I am also fully at ease. On active duty I have participated as the NCOIC of the casket detail for military funerals when I was stationed at Ft Riley KS.
I don't have those issues
I'm not too healthy, nor am I enjoying life that much. I suppose one or both could change, but I doubt it.
I suspect long life will bring some badly needed changes. To live 1K years means you have to have somewhere to live.
I always say ' It's a small world, careful who you P off"
Spectacular choice! I love that poem, I have read it aloud once myself for a friend in despair.
Getting a lot of mileage out of that video. Speaking of Spike, how is she ?
It's been a while since Spike made a cameo appearance.
Cefin