The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

A tribute to...

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I don’t know how I feel about tributes, per se. In theory, I’m in favour of anything that celebrates another person and makes them feel special. That said, I’ve had my share of moments when I’ve been annoyed by them, mostly because those who were celebrated were recognized out of a sense of duty, rather than genuine merit. At times I have found the praise to be ingratiatory, prompting me to roll my eyes and start tapping my foot. I have cringed at the platitudes and exhaled loudly when the insincerity became palpable. Mostly, this has been the case at past business meetings, where someone was leaving and their superior would go on and on about their contributions and hard work, when all the while I knew they couldn’t stand one another, or that the one leaving got a better job and made it clear that they couldn’t wait to be gone. All for show, you see, and no one buying a damn word of it.

If you take a tribute and set it to music, though, you’re most certain to make me cry. Bagpipes tend to bring out the fattest tears, rolling down my cheeks and splashing onto my coat, because there’s something so prestigious about them, something sensational. Any kind of retrospective combining music and photos will have me sobbing into my lap. It’s the closest I get to becoming unhinged.

It’s no secret that emotion makes me uncomfortable. I am the person who avoids sloppy goodbyes, opting for the heartfelt email or personal note in place of long-winded farewells and buttercream cake. Many people over the years have known this about me and they have revelled in my discomfort when I’ve been unsuccessful in escaping. A hug makes me blush, but a double-cheeked kiss is enough to make me stammer. I do not like goodbyes and can’t do them without a waver in my voice or tears glazing my eyes. To me, a goodbye is only a hop, skip and a jump to a full-on tribute, and that’s not something I can handle with any kind of grace.

Funerals are the ultimate form of tribute, but the thing which always bothers me is that the person being honoured is dead, rendering them incapable of hearing the kind words of loved ones. Sometimes, I practice eulogies in my head. I try to come up with personal anecdotes or witty tales about the people I suspect I will have to one day pay tribute to. It’s an odd thing to do, sure, but I have been caught short before. When my grandmother died, I somehow ended up writing a poem about her. It was painfully sentimental, and I cried as I wrote it, the ink smudging from the tears which ungraciously spread themselves across the paper. I thought that maybe someone might read it for me, until it was determined that I should be the one to do it, and to the surprise of everyone (including myself), I agreed. The problem, though, was not the poem (though it might have been mediocre at best). The problem was that I could barely get through the damn thing without sniffling and snorting into the microphone as I struggled to read it. My loudest snort, which may have shook the stained glass windows of the parlour, caused my sisters and friends to burst out into laughter, sobbing and cackling simultaneously. It was infectious, this odd reaction, and soon everyone was hysterical, unable to contain their giggles, and I stood there on the podium looking three shades of pink, with mascara drizzling down my face, wondering what the hell I was thinking getting up there without a tissue, or a net.
When my grandfather died six weeks later, and I was asked to pay him the same tribute, I almost said no. I had no desire to look like a fool while struggling to honour him in a way that demanded poise, something I clearly lacked. Still, I did it, and it went off without much of a snort, but I prayed no one else would die any time soon, for all the obvious, selfish reasons.

When my sister K. married, I did it again, except this time it was a happy occasion and it made no sense that I would break down. As she made her way down the aisle, I was overcome. It might have been my advanced stage of pregnancy, or the fact that it was my little sister making her way down the aisle into her future, or it could have even been the fact that I was the oldest sibling, the only one unmarried, huge and swollen, unable to wear nice shoes because my feet would only fit into mesh flip flops. She looked stunning, as did most of the wedding party, and while we stood there in the late afternoon sun, holding lilies and shining like wet seals in our black satin, I burst into tears. Try as I might to put up the dam, I could not, and I ducked behind my sister P. to compose myself. K. hadn’t made it to the minister yet and I was already a blubbering mess. I laughed as I cried, and of course, I snorted. Later, I was relieved to learn that most of the guests incorrectly assumed it was P. who had lost her mind, but my darling M., the cameraman elect that day, managed to catch every teardrop, frame by frame. That moment will live on, forever.

As I said, I’m not against tributes, but I have a hard time verbalizing any kind of admiration about anyone to their face. I can’t look at the person, I giggle and twitch. Even saying ’I love you’, which is most wonderful kind of tribute in my way of thinking, is a tough thing to say at times. When I say it to M., I try to find the best moment for it, because attaching it to the end of a phone conversation, or as a way to bid him good night, does not work for me. I try to leave it for the dark, or I write it in a card, but wandering into his office to hug him and say it would only rouse suspicion on his part. He knows it’s out of character for me and he might become uncomfortable, if not concerned. I never want that phrase to seem overdone or flaccid. I want it to always have a certain brand of potency, and I think that my reluctance to say it daily actually lends to this power. That said, I understand that people like to hear it, and it’s likely best not to leave it until another bag-piping tribute is necessary.

I wrote a poem about my father for his sixtieth birthday a few years ago. I printed it up on photo paper after finding the right Celtic design to border it, and I framed it before handing it to him at his party. He would not read it, only awkwardly kissed my cheek and mumbled something about looking at it after. I thought maybe he wondered if I had been thoughtless for not buying him a ’real’ gift, and I decided not to press him to read it. My dad has always been a bit odd about emotions as well, so I don’t have to strain myself too hard to figure out how I got to be so warm and fuzzy. Strength and steel, and all that.

A day later, my mother called and she was whispering into the phone.

“Your father read your poem last night,” she said.

“Oh?” I answered, a little bit nervous.

“Oh my god,” she sighed, “he fell apart. He just burst into tears and locked himself in his office and he cried his heart out for about twenty minutes. When he came out, he wouldn‘t even look at me, he just said he was alright and to leave it at that.”

I had not expected this.

“I didn’t mean to upset him…” I started.

“Oh no! He loved it. He said he didn’t know you felt that way about him, and that it really touched him to know that you cared enough to write it. It was the nicest gift he’s ever gotten.”

I was elated to know that a tribute of mine was heard by the person it had been intended for, even though I was weepy and whelmed with a combination of pride and love as I hung up the phone. There was nothing left to say that wasn’t in the poem.

It’s the only way I can let the words out, and there are no bagpipes, no microphones...