November 30: Rigor Mortis Curiosity

It's normal for a child to stare at a grotesquely disfigured man. A little boy has no qualms about asking his embarrassed mother why the lady they're quickly passing is so fat. A child's curiosity is expected and sometimes laughed at. They are scolded for asking their questions, but it's this natural inquisitiveness that shapes who they will become.

Of the many lectures I sat through during the week of college orientation, I remember a professor addressing a crowded auditorium and pondering what point in life we as human beings let go of the innocence to ask such questions. He explained that most disabled people don't mind being asked why they can't walk by children. The speaker mentioned that the embarrassment doesn't reside in the person in the wheelchair, but rather within the person asking (or avoiding) the question.

The professor's point was that in college (and in life), we shouldn't hesitate to ask questions. If we want to know something, we shouldn't be embarrassed by the simplicity of that which we seek. I really took that particular message to heart and I have always asked the pressing questions. I don't think my curiosity is a result of the lecture, but more of who I have always been; I must get it from my dad.

When my grandfather (his dad) passed, for example, instead of simply retrieving the remains from the crematorium on the way to the funeral services, he had to arrive a half an hour early to get a guided tour through the ovens; and I was all too eager to accompany him. Death is normally a sad affair for family members. The day of letting go is usually reserved for just that; consoling and being consoled by friends and family. Who thinks of asking to see the climate-controlled crypts? Who wants to see the grate that catches the gold and silver fillings of the charred deceased's teeth?

I will never forget that particular tour, either. It's not every day you're greeted by a naked, frozen corpse forced to sit up in a six-foot, cardboard casket by the magical wonderment of rigor mortis. It was as though he had an invisible string pulling him up from the sternum and he was staring straight ahead with his mouth ajar. Classic. Also, who would have guessed that the proper temperature to grill a body is 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit?

See, without my father's unbridled curiosity and my willingness to follow, I never would have had that experience at the local crematorium. I may ask the couple that met while playing World of Warcraft the uncomfortable questions and my dad may ask the father why he let's his son continue living at home without contributing anything, but neither of us ask these things to ridicule or patronize. We ask because we are legitimately interested. We don't point at the fat lady and laugh and we are a little more cautious when approaching the guy missing his leg, but we're definitely not afraid to ask. I don't see the problem.