The whole dinner in Houston’s The Dead is rife with conflict, the polite kind, the one that only comes out during the holidays. A mix of built-up expectations, pressures and a need to be civil, you only see each other once a year, of course, best not to ruin it. Where the extended family come together and acts as if we all play a part in each other’s lives. There is some beauty in this farce, in the characters we become, sometimes idealised versions of ourselves, sometimes regressing back to children. The conversation is dominated by the past, by what once was, parts of their history, I wasn’t there for. For a period, we exist in a different time, one outside of death, outside of the future, talking as if time isn’t passing, sitting around the table long after the plates have been cleared. This dance continues, we make plans for a future that might not come, feel a renewed sense of life, for family. Small parts of conversations that become treasured memories over time. Old friends, relatives resurrected through conversation, old expectations, values and traditions dredged back up from the past.
But as the curtains begin to close on the evening, observing, you begin to understand that people are rarely listening to one another, almost like a show and tell, each person eagerly awaiting their turn. Wanting to actualise this version of themselves, which only exists in the company of others. Each person appears to be pretending, and yet they all claim to truly know one another, to understand each other on a much deeper level than anybody else. Then reality comes back, your mind starts to wander on what your uncle ^really^ meant by what he said and why your two aunties spent so long in the other room, or why your grandmother’s eyes were so red that night. Even among family, there are things which aren’t spoken about, “shouldn’t” be mentioned. To be fully open and have each encounter with those you truly care for turning into a declaration of love and lament for lives current and lives lost risks losing face, having your true desires and fears laid bare, more often we shield those we care about from our deepest emotions, preferring a “nice” time instead.
Truly, we can only know what we are permitted to see. A friend of mine once told me that the idea of never being able to truly, completely know another person frightened them deeply. I think it frightened me, too. There’s a part of you that likes to think you can predict, understand, and anticipate how others feel and that if only you knew a little more about them, you would be able to preempt their every mood, every action. Accepting that you will never really know them, not in the same way you know yourself, denies you this ability. In the same breath, though, you do not want to be known, to be understood, for then there is no more defence, you are putting your body upon the altar awaiting what feels like an inevitable sacrifice.
Can we really free ourselves from time that has passed and all the people that we used to be?
