The Family Eulogist

I am my family’s designated eulogy writer. In other families, someone might find themselves the planner, the hoster of gatherings and special events, or the comic relief, the one who lightens the mood for those around them—a job which, at a time when the world feels increasingly dire, surely cannot be discounted. Somehow, eulogist is the role I hold in mine. What started as composing birthday cards on behalf of the group as a child slowly evolved into writing my little cousins’ college application essays, and, before I knew it, the responsibilities of my post had expanded once again. Now, despite not being much for public speaking, I am expected to craft and give a speech at the wake each time a family member passes.

This is not so much an ask as it is an assumption. My family believes that since I am a writer by trade, naturally eulogy writing must be a duty I want to take on. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the basic logic behind this train of thought—someone who writes for a living surely must be capable of crafting a eulogy here and there. My resistance to assume this role is less about ability than it is responsibility; the onus of memorializing someone on behalf of your entire family is a huge one.

The word eulogy comes from the Latin eulogia, which literally means high praise. It’s influenced by another Latin term, elogium, which refers to an inscription on one’s tomb. To put it another way, there is permanence to these words. They’re designed to last. But this explanation has always fallen on deaf ears. Despite noting that I’m predominantly a fiction writer and that, if we’re being technical, this actually falls more under the umbrella of autobiography, my family keeps pushing until I give in. Usually I’m left stress-penning a draft, hunched over my keyboard until the morning of the service.

Candidly, there is a part of me that feels like this reaction is ungrateful. Being trusted with this moment is a flattering ask, even if it comes with additional stressors. And it’s not that I want to force someone else to do the job either—only that I’d appreciate some recognition of how big a request (that isn’t even a request, really) it is, especially when made repeatedly.

Or maybe it’s exactly because my family does recognize that it’s such a large responsibility that the job ends up being mine. Part of me wonders if the role assignment is, at least to some extent, cultural. My mother’s side is Chinese—a people who are, pulling from my own experience, notorious for couching their emotions in action instead of words. The longer this goes on, the more I begin to suspect they’re leaning on me, the Americanized granddaughter, to bring out in language what they are unable to bring out in themselves: genuine vulnerability and that scary three-word sentence “I love you.”

The longer this goes on, the more I begin to suspect they’re leaning on me, the Americanized granddaughter, to bring out in language what they are unable to bring out in themselves: genuine vulnerability and that scary three-word sentence “I love you.”

Generally speaking, Chinese funerals look a whole lot different from Western ones. If it can be broadly said that Chinese culture tends to stray away from outward displays of extreme emotion, this certainly holds true for its funeral processions. Traditionally, wailers were hired to mourn at the ceremony, quite literally outsourcing the display of grief to people who didn’t even know the deceased during their lifetime.

Another major element of a Chinese funeral is the burning of joss paper, thin sheets of incense (sometimes papier-mâché) that are designed to guide the deceased into the afterlife, and, more specifically, to ensure that they have sufficient funds to survive once they get there. Even in death, the priority is in providing material goods, putting action before words and emotion. With this context, it makes more sense why my older relatives would feel uncomfortable with the notion of speaking about their lost loved ones. Doing so is not customary to them in the way that it may be for me. Because of it, now I’ve become a one-woman wailer, and I’d better hope that I cry loudly enough to satisfy the crowd.

For as long as I can recall, love in our family looked less like physical affection than it did checking an item off a to-do list. No, my relatives weren’t big huggers, but if you wanted someone to refill your gas tank or stock up on way too much of your favorite citrus, they were the best in the game, hands down. Love wasn’t so much what you said as what you did, and it left little space for tenderness.

Growing up, my mother and aunties teased me for moments when I’d show softness. I’d be laughed at for tearing up at Sarah McLachlan’s ASPCA commercials or reading about the augmenting sacrifices in The Giving Tree. By contrast, my mother has always bragged about how seldom she cries, carrying her teflon spirit around like a badge of honor. Even when she phoned me while I was away at college to inform me that my father had died by suicide, her voice remained steady on the other end of the line, unwavering as she directed me, calmly but firmly, to collect myself from the ground and walk back to my dorm room.

Though I did write my father’s eulogy, this was the one time I found myself unable to say my own words aloud, and instead I handed over the crumpled sheet to the priest, who read the words with a strange, distant inflection, pausing at all the wrong moments in the sentences. My mother, once again, did not shed a tear throughout the service. It’s perhaps unsurprising, then, that this same woman would want to steer clear of the unsavory vulnerability of a eulogy, instead leaving it to her lifelong sniveler of a daughter. In this sense, the task assignment is not unlike an immigrant parent asking you to handle a customer service phone call or help them write an email. Though they might be able to do it by themselves, they place a special trust in you as someone who is more comfortable moving through the Western world, the world in which you both live.

Whenever I get the eulogy bat signal and know it’s time to spring into action, I start by calling upon all my relatives for their favorite memories of the late individual. The hope is always to craft a shared account rather than just my own recollection of the person. I can grow frustrated when no one wants to offer anything up, which is often the case.

“I know you’ll think of something,” my mother tells me, and I bite my tongue, holding myself back from explaining that, while she thinks she’s giving me creative liberty, she’s actually making the challenge even greater.

If I do manage to collect some memories, I’ll find the throughline among them, speaking more to the person’s overall character. In a eulogy, there isn’t time to say it all, so you’re better off trying to see how much meaning you can wedge into a succinct anecdote. The seconds crawl by at a wake, and no one wants to be stuck in one place for too long. The room is somehow simultaneously too cold and too stuffy, the seats stiff and creaky, and the air an awful, chemical floral scent. One solid, heartfelt story is just right for the crowd’s appetite.

For my cousin Mike’s eulogy, I talked about the time he’d dropped everything to come meet me when he learned I was at a nearby bar with his older brother. He’d brought with him two delightful surprises: Mexican marzipan candies that he’d just purchased from a convenience store, a handful stuffed ungracefully in his pocket, as well as his date. He’d been out for the second time with the woman who, though we didn’t know it at the time, would go on to become his fiancée. At his wake, I was anxious to be speaking in front of the group and could hear the sound of my own voice catching in my throat, but I made sure to look up and meet her eyes as I recalled the day, letting her know that she wasn’t alone in the moment.

I chose the memory because it encapsulated exactly the kind of person Mike was. That was his role in our family—the soft, kind, bringer-together of people. The one who would show up without expecting anything in return. Talk about a tough job. It’s a position that remains yet vacant, and I can’t imagine someone else ever filling it.

Indeed, no emotion is one-size-fits-all, and grief is perhaps chief among them. We all grieve differently, and for some, that reaction is to pull away. There is no wrong way to feel one’s grief, and no one should hold it against you if you do not want to publicly display it. This is a lesson I’ve learned with my own relatives. As time goes on, I have an increased compassion for my family making this request of me. I remind myself that, oftentimes, asking someone you love for help is truly the most vulnerable act of all. That’s not an easy role to have either.

There are moments when I’m still torn over whether I believe this position to be a burden or a privilege. Possibly it is both, or a strange third thing that falls somewhere between the two. At the end of the day, having the answer isn’t what matters. What does is that I continue supporting those for whom I care about the most, in whatever shape that responsibility may come to take. For now, that looks like showing up with words where they have always showed up for me with action.