12

Grand Ma's wake is scheduled for nine o'clock at a local funeral parlor, just a few blocks down the street near a parking lot, making it convenient for everyone. Uncle, Oldest Auntie, and Bo left approximately an hour ago, in order to prepare for the arrival of guests, because improper funeral arrangements can wreak disaster and misfortune upon the family of the deceased, or in other words, bring bad luck that'll cause them to lose money. My parents are getting ready as well as Jordan and me. I've been told that we're skipping breakfast, to pay due respect for the deceased. It doesn't help that mounds of food apples, oranges, bananas, crackers and—

— various types of good-luck candy are placed all over the apartment in large, golden bowls, as a ceremonial offering for Gran Ma's passing. All over the apartment, in addition, are red leaflets and red joss papers, with red couplets overlaying the walls. I find it ironic that it's forbidden to wear red at an Asian funeral, yet, homes can be enshrouded with red all over, for happiness and good luck. I guess they don't want that happiness and good luck being wasted on the dead, since they'll need it for themselves and their stock portfolio.

After about half an hour, my parents, Jordan, and I walk over to the funeral parlor, even though I suggest taking a taxi as a more prudent option, since it wouldn't look too good if all of us died at the hands of crazy Asian drivers before the funeral. We make it there in one piece and enter the main entrance of the reception lobby. Each of us is given the following: incense, an emptyred envelope, and an armband, except that mine is white so is Jordan's. Uncle,—
Oldest Auntie, my parents, and the elderly are all wearing black bands around their arms. I understand the reason why: deference. According to Asian custom, older people should not show respect to younger people, dead or alive. The white armbands act as a visual aid, a reminder to put the young ones in their place. Moreover, Asian funeral rites and obsequies, as well as burial customs, are determined by the age of the deceased, but more importantly, status and position in society. So even when you die, you can't escape the money-statuspower influence of Asian culture.

Bo greets us as we make our way into the corridor of the main room. He joins us to — —light up the incense provided to each of us earlier in order to pay our respects, as is customary at an Asian funeral. We approach the tall altar table, constructed of solid rosewood in a dark cherry matte finish, topped with two bowls of fruit and good-luck candy, and a big picture of Grand Ma in the middle. Right below the altar is an urn, full of burned joss paper and prayer money, in order to provide Grand Ma with sufficient income in the afterlife. I think to myself, What could Grand Ma possibly buy in heaven? A BMW? A Big Mac? Cigarettes? That's what got her in this mess in the first place! Even after death, Asian people can't let go of their obsession with money.

Thereafter placing the lit incenses in the burner, we move towards the obligatory donation box, as money is always offered to show respect to the family of the deceased, supposedly to help defray the costs of the funeral. I say supposedly because that's the“ ”
same thing I've been told about giving cash at Asian weddings to help defray the costs ;—“ ” the same thing I've been told about giving cash at Asian tea ceremonies to help defray the—“

” costs ; the same thing I've been told about giving cash at New Year's to help defray the—“
”costs ; the same thing I've been told about giving cash at every, single Asian ceremony— even for a ceremony that celebrates an Asian baby being alive for just a few months! I hope you are starting to see the pattern here: for every occasion, there's money to be made. No one wants to pay for the costs so make someone else pay for it, plus, you'll likely end up making a profit, which is really the objective anyway, because it's always about the money. Bo leads us towards the front row, where the seats are completely empty. It's surprising that my other relatives haven't shown up yet. After sitting for a while, I start to get dizzy from the spuming smoke, coming from all that burned incense, my contact lenses beginning to dry up as a result. Jordan hits me on my left arm because I'm sitting too close to her what love— from my little sister. Everyone else around the room is quiet too quiet probably meditating,— —
waiting for the sermon to begin. All of the sudden, I hear several ladies crying out, wailing as loud as they can, like it's a competition and the prize is a pot of cash literally. It's considered—
good luck in Asian culture to wail as loud as possible, just in case the deceased has left a large fortune, all the riches going to the loudest. Fake crying for money; these ladies should consider a career in Hollywood with their affectation. And the Oscar goes to... As if this isn't bad enough, all of the lady guests in the room, including those in my family, are dressed up entirely in designer apparel, carrying brand name hand bags, flaunting glittering jewelry from head to toe and wearing full facial makeup as if they are about to do a magazine photo shoot, again like it's a competition. Remember the BMW 550i competition, the invisible competition between my parents and my neighbors? Are they the same ones that set up this competition at Grand Ma's funeral? What are they competing for? You guessed it: status. In Asian culture, only traditional hemp cloth mourning clothes are to be worn to a funeral. Furthermore, guests are not permitted to wear jewelry, based on the superstition that ghosts will take away all the wealth. I guess they threw this tradition out the window, because how else are you going to show off your wealth, status, and position in society? Even at a funeral, it's always about the money.
Speaking of superstitions, Asian culture has a notoriously long laundry list. From “Never point at the moon or your ears will get chopped off to Do not keep a pet turtle or it” “
”will slow down your business, Asians believe and practice the silliest, most asinine superstitions. It wouldn't surprise me if there are more superstitions than there are word characters in the Chinese, Korean, and Japanese languages combined! I remember reading a news article which stated that 90% of China's middle school students have actually had their fortune told; I can only imagine what the statistics are for the other Asian countries. I know that there are superstitions in every culture, but here's what's interesting: see if you can find the pattern for the following superstitions:

1. Do not use knives or scissors on New Year's Day as this will cut off fortune.
2. Sweeping or dusting should not be done on New Year's Day for fear that good fortune will be swept away.
3. Do not wash your hair because it would mean washing away good fortune for the New Year.
4. Black is the color of feces and wearing it will bring disaster and bad fortune.
5. Females should not pierce their ears because wealth would fall through the holes.
6. Bind fingers at a young age so that holes don't develop, otherwise, wealth will leak out of the hands.

For crying out loud! As if Asian women haven't suffered enough from feet binding, do they now have to bind their fingers in order to fulfill a ludicrous superstition? I hope you can see that the pattern has to do with fortune and wealth, aka money. The vast majority of Asian superstitions has to do with fortune and wealth, aka money, since it's always about the money. Asian people are so obsessed with money, that they create superstitions in order to give them a feeling of control, even though they're not in control and never will be. Remember how—
Asian parents love making their kids eat every small microscopic grain of rice from their bowls? It's about this idea of control, this imaginary abstract idea of control, that they can control everything, specifically good fortune and wealth, aka money. This illusion provides

“ ”them that warm, fuzzy feeling, so that everything will be okay, when in fact, it's just all in their heads! Asians create belief systems that they use to manage their fears and anxieties; superstitions are a form of those systems. As Edmund Burke said, Superstition is the religion“

” of feeble minds. Now you see why there are so many superstitions here at Grand Ma's funeral. Asians are insecure about their own mortality and seek to deny it by using incredibly complex belief systems to downplay its significance, in order to appease their own fears and anxieties. They can't accept the fact that someday they will die so they need to at least believe in something, even something as preposterous as superstitions, just to placate their own fears and anxieties. I'm starting to sound like a damn psychoanalyst!

Jordan punches me in the left arm again, this time signaling me to approach the casket —a simple nudge would suffice! I walk up, passing a salute of white flower bouquets, to see Grand Ma, her wax-like face exhibiting such a peaceful and solemn elegance. I stare at her, my body motionless and my eyes indifferent, not knowing exactly what I should do. I can see

— my parents crying the whole room is crying. I just...can't cry. I know that I've never been close to Grand Ma, but something else is preventing me from crying for her, something that's clutching my will to express any emotion. After all these years, now I know what it is: my parents. Though not my parents per se, but the way they brought me up, the way I was raised. I was never taught to express my feelings and never taught on how to react at times of emotional stress. I was only taught to get good grades, to get into a good college, to get into a

— good medical school, to get a good job but never taught how to express my emotions. I really am just a robot. I've become a robot, without love or affection from my parents no— hugs, no kisses, not even a handshake from them, my entire life. And now when I'm faced with the need to cry, I can't...I just can't do it. I just don't know how...

I walk back to my seat and sit silently, my face buried in my hands. I need some time to think. Jordan is looking at me with a queer eye, as if I've been vilified as an outcast of the —family and I don't blame her. What type of person can't cry at his own grandmother's funeral? What kind of person can't express a single emotion at the sight of a deceased person? Am I really heartless? Or did I just never had a heart to begin with?

I continue to sit there by myself, ruminating about the gravitas of my personal crisis. I wonder if I'm the only one in the room not crying. I glance over at Bo, who's also just sitting there, fixed and stationary in his seat. Perhaps it's not just me. Perhaps Bo is thinking the same thing. Our austere upbringing is probably the reason why we're both sitting in our seats, unmoving and static in our body language. I guess it's not just me, so now, I don't feel too bad. In fact, I should appreciate everything my parents have done for me, even their mission to raise me with a strict, austere upbringing. Thank you, Mommy and Daddy, for turning me into an emotionless robot, just for the sake of money, status, and power, so that you can retire in a big luxury mansion at my expense once I'm a rich doctor, even though I've always wanted to be a writer instead; I seriously need counseling.

I've been sitting here for almost an hour so I decide to get up and go outside. Notice I

“ ”didn't say take a walk outside because I really don't feel like joining Grand Ma today. I depart through the parlor hallway and upon opening the main entrance door, I see a group of
— —eight men most of them elderly laughing and shouting as if it's a New Year's party and not a funeral. Intrigued and curious, I walk up to them to see what's going on. One of the men, —approximately in his late eighties judging by the intense wrinkles around his eyes and —blinding white hair is holding playing cards in his left hand and money in his right. The man across from him, much younger, approximately in his forties judging by his receding hairline—
—and slight patches of gray hair slams down his cards and jumps up in jubilation, waving his hands high in the air, as if he's the main attraction of Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. I can't believe that they're actually gambling, with Grand Ma's casket only a few feet away! I ask the man in his forties why they're gambling, and he explains that it's an Asian custom also— —superstition to gamble in order for the gambling noises to scare the ghosts away. As if the donation box isn't enough, do they now have to make money gambling? Have they no shame? All these superstitions without any sense of respect, morality, or ethics. I guess money is king in Asia. And whom does this king rule over?