Transcendence of Witnessing: An Immigrant’s Odyssey Reaches the Last Stop
Immaculate Conception Church in Astoria, Queens.
The day before Halloween, a Friday, I attended a funeral mass for a friend of my parents. I had not seen Jaime Gomez for years, but after receiving the news, I was compelled to attend, to accompany his wife and children in their time of grief. Also, as the lone remaining New Yorker, I went to represent my family, now spread over many states. Our families had been close growing up on Crescent Street in the shadows of the Con Edison plant in Astoria. That was almost fifty years ago.
The morning’s weather—thirty-nine degrees, a pesky rain, and gusty winds—was appropriately dreary. I wore my waterproof leather boots, a black jacket and tie. I went alone, taking the subway to the last stop on the Astoria-Ditmars line. The Immaculate Conception Church on Ditmars Boulevard was a short walk from there. The elevated station and the church were as I remembered them, but none of the storefronts were recognizable except for the neighborhood stalwart, the La Guli Pastry Shop.
When I arrived, my aunt and uncle were on the church steps, waiting for an earlier funeral service to end. I had an inkling they would be there despite the pandemic. My cousin, Sandy, was there, too. We greeted each other awkwardly, no big hugs with our masks on. After a few minutes of bouncing from foot to foot to keep warm, I retreated into the heated vestibule taking my aunt in with me.
In the vestibule, a funeral assistant approached to inform us the service was about to end. Starting a conversation, he whispered about the terrible weather. My aunt agreed, “Yes, very cold.” He leaned in, as if not wanting anyone else to overhear, to tell us he was really feeling the chill because he had recently turned sixty.
He was trim, Mediterranean, with a full head of jet-black hair, looking much younger than sixty in his crisp black suit and tie. After determining we were friends of the deceased, not family, he felt he could tell us more. He confided he was still hurting from the death of his father at ninety-three, that he couldn’t understand how his father had gotten to ninety-three, and he, to sixty. As he moved away to attend to his duties, he shook his head in disbelief, “Where does the time go?”
We moved to a stairway landing off the vestibule to stay out of the way of the group departing. Once they were clear, I opened the rear door and went inside. From the rear, the empty church loomed larger than I remembered. This had been the church of my childhood, every Sunday and every day of obligation. The brick work, thin reddish and ochre bricks in alternating sets with a heavy mortar line, gave it a feel of a modest church. We usually sat on the left side, rarely sitting anywhere else, and never in the extension to the right of the altar. My parents made sure to arrive early to find room for seven near the front. I maneuvered the step into the pews to avoid sitting next to either parent — more than arm’s length away was a good way to avoid a pinch for not paying attention.
I walked up the side aisle, checking out the exhibition that lined the perimeter of the church. The sign said, “A Walk With Mary: Marian images representing the diverse cultures of our parishioners.” I recognized a couple of famous apparitions, the ones recounted in films and books, Our Lady of Fatima from Portugal and Our Lady of Guadalupe from Mexico, but most of the others were unfamiliar and from remote places.
Moving toward the front, I came to a full-stop at the Our Lady of the Rosary from Chiquinquirá, another unfamiliar apparition, but this tiny town, high in the Andes, was the birthplace of my father. When my aunt, who had followed me in, approached, I pointed out the poster. She was similarly surprised and delighted to see a reminder of her late brother. While she read the caption, I took a picture with my phone, marveling at the coincidence.
Centro de Chiquinquirá, departamento de Boyacá, Colombia. (Petruss / Wikipedia Commons)
Gustavo was the first Gomez we saw. He strode briskly up the center aisle like the son in charge. He saw the two of us standing off to the side at the front of the church, detouring for a quick hello. He joked that it was only natural they were late, a reputed Gomez family trait. He went off to meet the priest.
At the back of the church, the funeral director was giving instructions to the pallbearers. They draped the pall over the casket once Gustavo rejoined them. Among the six pallbearers, I recognized Jaime’s two other sons, Jimmy and Carlos. They were crestfallen, no longer under their father’s shade, a feeling many sons think will never come to pass till it does.
The uplifting strains of On Eagles’ Wings accompanied their shuffle as they rolled the casket to the front. Behind them was Jaime’s wife, Mery. She walked gingerly, her petite frame supported by her daughter, Clara, and my cousin, Sandy, each holding an arm. As she went past where I was standing with my aunt, she looked over, perhaps a little unsure who I was, my face behind a mask. Her kind eyes, framed by her mask, were squeezed small, intimating a grief that choked me. I returned a namaste bow.
The gathering was sparse. The Gomez family occupied the first half-dozen pews on the right side. I sat with my aunt on the other side of the center aisle. The pandemic makes for small and short ceremonies, although small ceremonies are not unusual for immigrant families, whose large extended family remains in the old country.
Jaime and Mery landed in Astoria in the mid-sixties, craving secure futures for their little ones. Many of their friends were other Colombian families, like mine, arriving in the neighborhood around the same time. Their shared language, customs, and mores was the glue for the friendships that kept alive the traditions carried north.
After getting the news of Jaime’s death, my sister noted that we have lost many of the patriarchs of the families we grew up with. The men had so much spirit and energy, newbies enthralled with their new country. They devoted that energy to the success of their children. They worked hard, ignoring cold shoulders and enduring slights. They struggled with, and at times, were embarrassed by, their heavy accents that none would lose, but they were true believers in the American Dream. Together with their wives, who may have sacrificed even more, they raised successful children, children that are wholly American, most with their own families now. The grandchildren are a reward beyond joy for the remaining abuelos and abuelas, some have even graduated to great-grandparent status.
At the conclusion of the service, as in every funeral mass, the poignancy and absoluteness of the priest’s final words tightens the sadness over the front rows of the congregation where the closest kin sit. The recessional hymn offers but a tepid release.
I moved to the center aisle to follow the procession out, silently rehearsing my Spanish, “Mery, lo siento mucho. Jaime era uno de los buenos.” He was.
Approaching the vestibule, the procession slowed as a bottleneck formed due to the inclement weather. Over the heads of those standing on the church steps, I could see the casket being hoisted onto the back of the hearse. Mery was on the sidewalk under an umbrella in an embrace. I shuddered thinking about the Gomez family’s upcoming sorrow, the lonely visit to the cemetery in the rain. As I stepped out of the vestibule, the funeral assistant’s question reverberated — where does the time go?
Mauricio Matiz writes reflections—personal stories and poems—that spring from where he lives, New York City, often touched by where he was born, Bogotá. Follow him on Twitter @AMauricioMatiz and read more of his writing at: medium.com/matiz.