“Have a nice Qing Ming!”
“We forgive you; you're a foreigner. You don't know any
better”
–
Seen on social media
This weekend, all over China, people are manifesting
reverence for their dead: by traveling home, by burning yellow paper in little
chalk circles on sidewalks all over cities, by buying lavishly of fireworks,
streamers, flowers, and the aforementioned yellow paper, that serves as
currency in the afterlife. For the Chinese – whether they actively believe or
just go through the motions, hold that their ancestors are alive and well in
another world. Surely they need money, I-phones, jewelry and other items,
cunningly made of paper. All is sent across the barrier of these two worlds by
smoke: from incense, from candles, from reducing those paper items to ash.
This foreigner was uniquely privileged to witness,
first-hand, how a family from a small village honors their dear departed. Penny
hails from a such a village about 30 minutes outside of 黄陂（Huangpi - who-ahng pee). Among her dead are the usual assortment of
great- and grandparents and others, but also her father, who was taken when my
friend was just 14 years old. As I've met most of Penny's family, I was eager
to finally 'meet' her father.
Having arrived in
Huangpi Friday evening, we set out early on Saturday morning to the village –
if indeed it could be called a village: it was a collection of 7 houses. Not so
much as a post office to distinguish it as a township proper. Arriving in a
caravan of 3 cars over a succession of one-lane roads, we clambered out,
shaking off the rattling we endured over the rough roads. Those most concerned
with the proper playing out of events headed directly to the general store –
essentially, a few shelves of goods, set up in someone's living room, to
purchase all of the necessary accoutrements: firecrackers, incense, candles and, of course, yellow paper
'money'. After borrowing a hoe, a shovel and a scythe, we set off, down a
narrow footpath, into the hills.
Being an observer –
not family, I arrived at the graves last, to see people climbing on dirt
mounds, hacking away at vegetation with the scythe. Others were bringing chunks
of sod to form caps on these mounds. Penny took a moment to 'introduce' me to
everyone: here lay her grandmother and here, her great uncle. Over there rested
an aunt, and, in the only marker not made of dirt, was her mother's brother. I
questioned the difference in the tombs. Sam explained: in China, one is no
longer afforded a whole-body burial, as they were in the past. These days,
cremation is the law, so this uncle with the concrete marker was the only
relative who was cremated.
Whether cremains or
skeleton, everyone got the same treatment. The eldest of our party, a venerable
old man, planted lit incense and candles in front of each grave. Young and old
participated in burning 'money'. The feeling was not so much of reverence as of
gaiety. Once the burial mounds had been clear of vegetation, Penny led the
obeisance: in front of each grave, bowing 3 times with hands clasped and
muttering something I did not catch. Finally, the men gave warning: “Small
children, get away!”. They were about to light the firecrackers.
We all wended our
way back to the homestead for a short break, and then repeated the process at
another location, in the opposite direction of where we had been before. This
time, the area was more open, and I could see what all went on.
This burial mound
was cleaner and better tended. Hardly any vegetation grew on it, and it sat
apart from others, on level ground. This was Penny's father's grave.
The mound stood
nearly 2 meters tall. Fresh dirt was shoveled on, and the sides compacted. As
with the other graves, sod was brought in to form caps – one inverted and one
right side up. How I wish I knew the significance of these caps! As with the
others, 'money' was burned, incense and candles were lit and planted, and this
mound was encircled with a ribbon of fire crackers. Meanwhile, further back
into the tree line, some of our party tended to other graves, giving them the
same treatment. In a moment, the men once again declared we should make haste
away, and set off the fire crackers. As we rushed, pell-mell, from the noise,
exclamations of a wild boar sighting floated up. Too bad I missed it!
Strangely enough, at
these burial mounds, there were old, discarded shoes. I have no idea why there
would be shoes there. Sam did his best to explain, but I don't think I really
caught the essence of the tradition.
Isn't it difficult
to try to explain a ritual to a complete outsider? I am so grateful to Sam and
Penny, who invited me to celebrate her family with such an intimate rite, so
that I could witness for myself what happens, even if I left with more
questions than answers.
Why didn't we
celebrate Sam's family? By tradition, daughters honor the family and men take
care of it. Thus, for any other celebration, Sam would be called on to lead his
kin. For Qing Ming, ancestor worship falls to his sister and her husband, whose
sister, in turn, takes up the yoke for his family. However, these days, most
people honor both sides of the family, traveling first here and then there to
make sure all ancestors are equally revered and rewarded.
After a third such
gravesite visit, we had a lunch at some relative's house, still deep in the
country. I'll describe the house, the meal and all that went on there in my
next post but, for now, we have to drive sixty-eight kilometers, to Ezhou, to
tend to yet another relative.
Remember Ezhou? That
lovely little city I described in July, 2014? Such a good feeling I had when
visiting there, that I decided that would be where would I retire to.
Apparently, many others thought so, too. There were so many grave markers, even
along the highway! When I shared this thought with my friends: how they
laughed!
I stayed in the car
with the two children while the adults paid their respects, in the pouring
rain. Even though I wasn't grave-side, I can report one notable difference
between the ceremonies in Huangpi and Ezhou: garish adornments. Whereas Huangpi
graves are decorated only with candles and incense, Ezhou tombs are lavishly
embellished with streamers, tall posts wrapped in bright paper; and vivid,
larger-than-life silk flowers. Of course, paper 'money' and fire crackers
feature heavily. Penny explained that every region, and perhaps every village
treats their ancestors differently. What is the norm in Ezhou would be
considered bad taste in her village.
I might have
questioned the depth of feeling, considering the general air of festivity
surrounding the proceedings of the last 2 days, if not for the incident at
dinner in Huangpi. It took place in a fancy restaurant, and everyone who was
graveside also attended the meal. Erica, my little buddy, soon grew restless –
young children care little about momentous events. To amuse her, I taught her
how to make flowers out of tissue paper. The prettiest one she requested I put
in her hair. She then went to all the relatives, preening and expecting
compliments.
Everyone told her
her flower was horrible! Because the tissue paper was white, and white
symbolizes death, the assembled family told her to remove her flower, because
she's not dead and shouldn't adorn herself as though dead. Penny's aunt went so
far as to snatch it out of the poor, bewildered child's hair. Sam and Penny
tried to explain the significance of white flowers in vain: the child thought
her flower was pretty, and meant to wear it in spite of its supposed
significance.
Once again I
acknowledge that China is a land of contrasts: one may merrily set fire
crackers alight around graves to wake the dead, but not adorn themselves with
white flowers, for fear that the dead may actually rise and snatch a beloved
child prematurely.
Who am I to
understand where the lines of distinction lie when understanding the import of
putting pretty flowers in a young girl's hair?
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