Finding Momentum

Photo cour­tesy of Jeremy Brooks (Flickr).

I have dis­cov­ered you can­not prop­erly grieve in a city; it won’t give you a damn sec­ond to be alone. I’d like to have a moment of silence in an alley­way, behind the dump­ster, over the beggar-man, to the cacoph­ony of car horns and ice cream carousel jin­gles. No dice. The city clam­ors, roars, and cries for attention.

Once I sat in Oak­land traf­fic and watched low-slung motor­bikes and Cadil­lacs rush by in hip-hop time, their mourner-passengers lean­ing out win­dows and moon­roofs, flail­ing their arms and curs­ing out the world. Because when the city pays you no atten­tion, you must raise your voice and roar.

Maybe I’ll hold the wake behind the sta­dium, or under the piers, or by the train tracks. It’d never work though. The guests would get lost in the crowds, bump­ing shoul­ders with cruise ship pas­sen­gers. What could they hear over the roar of the fans, or the earth­shak­ing rum­ble of the 252? Tourists would train their cam­eras, passers­bys would gawk, it’d be a spectacle.

So that’s why when funeral pro­ces­sions snake through Chi­na­town, they are accom­pa­nied by a band. Because when the city drowns you out, you must raise the horn and wail.