Compiled by Holly Dayton ’13, Lens Section Editor
Every year, the Scroll runs a series of college essays written by the graduating seniors. This year’s seniors are a very talented class who are leaving CCDS to go to colleges all over the country. This is the college entrance essay of Haleigh Miller, who will be attending the University of Chicago.
I love funerals.
Maybe it’s simply because my family is a) Southern and b) completely insane, but our funerals are consistently hotbeds of humor. My attraction to funerals isn’t about the death-thing; I just sincerely love to laugh. Without a doubt, early exposure to Benton-based shenanigans has warped
my brain. Whether it’s a daytrip to Uncle Shot’s house-turned-hunting-lodge or one of the many funerals I’ve attended, I’ve been reared in the presence of absolutely ludicrous situations, permeated by whoops of laughter.
When I was two, I showed up to Uncle Bill’s funeral with an impressive black-eye. All I had done was trip and fall into the television, but I had a shiner the size of the Louisiana Purchase. Between mixing drinks and claiming “the south will rise again,” my southern mother’s family noticed my eye. They assumed that my Midwestern-Yankee-father was bad news, and had been beating me.
My great uncle Larry died when I was nine (this is the same uncle who, at the saddest funeral my family has ever seen, was involved in the Great-Toupee-Heist of 1973). We traded the obligatory greeting of “Love the shoes…How’s your mama?”, and observed Larry’s pill-popping ex-wife, Donna, who had decided to play the hat-wearing, “bereaved”-widow. At the service, we were “that family” that caused the preacher-man to stop mid-sermon—thrice. My uncle arrived halfway through the service, after he called my mother’s cell-phone, which rang. Loudly.
Most recently, at my great uncle Mike’s funeral, his daughter Amanda’s mother-in-law, Karen, raised Cain because Amanda’s children were chasing their dog. However, when prompted to address the situation herself, she responded with “Not my kids—not my problem!” She continued her behavior, and later had the wisdom of “If you’re not going to help, go home” imparted upon her. We blamed Karen’s Yankee-upbringing for her behaving like a complete ninny.
My family tree is unusual. Beyond your typical assortment of fruit, we have some square watermelons. Some of them are hanging onto their sanity by a thread. Never the less, my more exotic family members have taught me how humor works: it can be a coping mechanism, a weapon, or something to rally around—it goes much deeper than intelligible entertainment.
Growing up swinging from the vines of my funeral-ridden family tree, I’ve grown into a person with a lot of character. I’m not crippled by difficult situations—I tend to look for the humor in them. Maybe that isn’t always the most appropriate thing to do, but I can twist the British government’s words like no other and “[laugh] and carry on”. Maybe I’m a little weird. I’m ok with that though—I like to think I have more character and moxy that most. Taking grief and turning it into humor is a skill my family has given me that I sincerely hope to carry on into the rest of my life, because everyone needs their own way to cope and forge ahead.
