Chapter 81: It's A Funeral, Dammit.

We got the call at five in the morning. It turns out, MM didn’t have as much time as she thought.

“I’ll need a tie for this, right?” John shook the dust off of ties he stored in the back of his closet, draping them around his neck. He inspected himself in the hall mirror.

“This is an east-coast thing. You’ll need a tie,” I replied. “The Uber is eight minutes away.”

For the second time in only two months, we were both Charlottesville-bound. I settled into my seat, partially reclined and pulled the movie guide out of the seatback pocket.

“Do you have your remarks ready?”

I had been surprised that MM had asked me to speak at her funeral. She instructed her executrix to deliver messages to her appointed speakers after her death. Drew, I would be so grateful if you would say a few words at my funeral. I hope to god they follow my wishes. No “Celebration of Life,” crap.  You celebrate someone while they’re alive. When I die, I  want a funeral, dammit. Please. Call it what it is. I know we didn’t know each other well as students. I’m hoping you can dig down and find the right words for me as an adult. Somehow, I believe you will.”

“Yeah. I was up late working on it.” I reached over and took John’s hand. “Thanks. For coming this time. I know funerals aren’t your thing.”

“I spent about 15 minutes with the woman. But that was enough. She got me to fly across the country once. I figure I can do it once more. Out of respect. For your friend.”

“You’re right.” I smiled and squeezed John’s hand. “We were friends.” I chuckled to myself. MM got her do-over.

We arrived in the Rotunda, dripping wet from the late-summer rainstorm.

Sydney and Troy were the first to greet us. “I’m so glad you came.” Troy gave hugs. Sydney efficiently disposed of our raincoats. “She wanted you here. At the end, she liked to say that he only thing she liked more than her friends was getting her way.”

“Sounds just like her.” I added, “How are you two holding up?”

Troy arranged an appropriate funereal smile. “Pretty good. Pretty good.”

“It was such a surprise,” I added. “I thought she would have more time.”

“So you knew?” Sydney asked.

“Yes, at the luncheon.”

“So she told you.” Troy nodded, thoughtfully.

“Oh, not me. This one.” I said nodding toward John. “On the phone, no less.”

Troy laughed. “She must have really wanted you there. To play the dying old lady card. It’s pure MM.”

Sydney looked at his watch. “You’re seated over here,” he said pointing to a crescent of folding chairs that formed a simple arc around the casket. As we took our seats, I marveled. A funeral in the Rotunda? Who does this? How do you get to have your funeral held in a U. S. National Historic Landmark? In the same landmark where Thomas Jefferson hosted the Marquis de Lafayette for dinner?  I shook my head, and nodded silently to the casket: you go, girl.

  The crowd was small, but impressive. Sydney was in charge of introductions. MM would have been pleased to see the turnout, which included the University President, Chancellor, Provost and a smattering of Deans from the University. I was impressed as Sydney welcomed the national head of the LBGT Foundation, AMFAR, the Queer Youth Project, the Family Acceptance Project, and Advocates for Youth. Dr. Jeff was there, representing  UVaLGBTQ+.

The last introduction was Judith Green-Maxwell. In one of her final acts, MM had named Judith CEO and Director of NICE.

As John knew, I cried at funerals.

As the string quartet started, he handed me a freshly washed white handkerchief.

“Here. Just in case.”

As funerals, go, MM’s was a tear-jerker. Enhanced by the prefect acoustics of the Dome Room, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons wafted through the columns, up to the oculus and back. Genuine, heartfelt words of tribute came from MM’s husband, David, and MM’s sister, DeeDee. What followed were the more formal, global tributes. I was number four on the program.

Given the list of speakers, I was intimidated. My mind tuned out their words which echoed across the Rotunda’s rounded walls. As my heart began to pound, I feared what I knew all too well as the beginning of a panic attack. John stole a questioning look. I swallowed hard, remembered to breathe, and nodded.

What was it Daddy used to say in situations like this? “Remember, they put their underwear on one leg at a time. Just like you.” Funny, but not helping all that much. I concentrated on my breathing. Let’s try 4-7-11 breathing. That’s it. In on 4. Hold for 7. Out for 11. Again. I was holding my own. But two speakers had finished. One more to go, then me. I took my already-damp handkerchief and wiped the tiny beads of sweat from my forehead.

“Are you ok?” John whispered.

I nodded yes, faking it. What about muscle relaxation? I tensed my calves. Then released. Followed by my thighs. And release.  I can’t tense my face. They’ll think I’m having a stroke.

I found myself coming back to the room, where the venerable J. Jacob Marshall, MM’s Director of Giving for NICE,  was finishing his remarks.

I was up next.

As the polite applause for Mr. Jacobs died down, I found my way to the podium. I

steadied myself and looked out at the crowd. Focusing on John’s face I saw him mouth, I love you.  I knew then, all would be ok.

“Mary Margaret, MM to her friends, cast a long shadow. She didn’t suffer fools. She didn’t have time for foolish behavior.” The group murmured and nodded. “Mostly, she said, she had no energy for regrets. ‘You can regret, or regroup and redo.’ I think about that often. Regret, or regroup. Re-do. That’s precisely what MM and David did after their daughter died. MM rechanneled her grief by exploring how she might ease the pain of others. How she might spare others from the secret turmoil Tayloe endured.

“I knew that turmoil. It was the torture—the emotional tug-of-war—of trying to fit in. To find ‘normal.’ And I realized, recently, that MM knew that turmoil, too. The quest to fit in, especially when you’re born so different from the norm.” I paused. “At this point, I can almost hear MM interjecting, ‘Rich! He means filthy rich!”

Everyone did a collective inhale, followed by a wave of laughter that filled the room.

I relaxed a little. “You can hear that, too, can’t you? Well. 'Rich' was definitely different. Definitely a first world problem to have. But,” I said, nodding to her casket, “A problem, nonetheless. And before I go on, I think MM would be the first to implore the room to dispense with any pity. It was a hand she was dealt. And a hand she spend much of her life figuring out how to play.

“Sort of like being gay. Or lesbian. Or bi. Or questioning. Or any number of undefinable ways of being in this world that don’t fit into the box labelled ‘normal’ by ‘them.’ You know ‘them.’ The people who decide the way things should be. And there’s that word, ‘should.’ Well, on MM’s behalf, I stand before you today to implore you and the world: stop ‘shoulding’ all over yourselves.

More, richer laughter.

“MM liked that one.”

I checked in with John, who nodded smiling, telegraphing, you got this.

I continued. “In the end, she brought to fruition what she called not her biggest achievement, but the one that helped her make a little more sense of the world, The NICE Foundation.  MM’s choice for CEO of NICE, Judith Maxwell-Green reminded us: NICE stands for “Nurture, Inclusion, Caring and Empowerment.” It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? Sounds accessible. Admirable. Something to aspire to. Not just for people in marginalized communities, but for all of us. Everyone who gets up in the morning, searching for meaning, for acceptance, and for inclusion. I think it all comes down to fitting in. Those of you who have children—or can remember that far back—can understand that fitting in is the holy grail of teenager-hood. And sometimes, when the world is just kind enough and caring enough to bend, we find it.  MM was on to something. And we will miss her.”