Speaking of the Dead

Tonight I was talking to my best friend about pregnancy. It's a topic that comes up a lot, as she's expecting a baby at the first of November. She was telling me how tired she is and commented that her grandmother and great-grandmother probably knew NOTHING of tiredness during pregnancy, and just kept going until the babies showed up. I wouldn't be surprised by this. Toughness is a virtue in the women of her family.

I mentioned that pregnancy was very hard on my own grandmother. She spent most of it leaning against the bathroom wall, trying to support her back. She threw up everything she ate. It was probably why she didn't like her children, but soon added that even if pregnancy was easy, she would have found a reason not to like them. My friend, who I know was joking, chided me for speaking ill of the dead.

The thing is, I don't think it's wrong to speak ill of the dead if what you say about them is true. Even if they were awful, even if they made you mad every day, I think it's fine to talk about that. This is who they were and I believe that people would rather be known for their actual selves that some whitewashed version. I certainly know that is what I want when I die. I want to be remembered for the good and the bad. It's far more accurate of who I am. I think it helps to keep the real memory alive. To me, that is how you honor the person.

My grandmother is a good example of this. I loved the woman. I loved her deeply and I miss her a lot. She influenced me in so many ways and she is one of the first people who defined my reality. Having said that, she was a pill. She could be vain and stubborn and judgmental. She could be hard to have a conversation with. We didn't always get along. And yet, I love her both for the good parts of who she was and the not so good parts. When I think about her, there is a certain affection attached to it, even when I'm thinking about what a pill she could be.

I never got to meet my dad's mother. She died before I was ever born. And yet, all of my life, I was told stories about her. Only a few of those stories paint her in a saintly light. Most of the time, she was displaying a lot of temper and personality. Sometimes she was throwing pop bottles at hunting dogs. Sometimes she was dishing our retribution to my grandfather and his mistresses. Apparently, she wasn't all that easy to get along with. Even still, instead of some kind, saintly, fake version of her, I have a vision of someone who was strong and fierce and unpredictable. I love that. I love her.

I don't think you should tell lies about the dead. Even if those lies make the person sound better than they were, I still believe it is wrong. Telling lies about someone who has passed means that their true stories aren't being told. The true stories about them is what helps to keep their memory alive.