Op-Ed: I was in mourning, so I went to a funeral — for 1,400 people

The day after the election, I flew to the Midwest. I went from my blue comfort zone deep into the red. I taught a class, spoke to two groups, and kept my mouth shut about my anguish over the election results.

There were sunny skies in the flyover zone, and bright autumn leaves above lush lawns — most of them still decorated with Trump yard signs. I stayed in a too-pristine suburb of Cincinnati. I saw no homeless people, very few tattoos or piercings, not even a dog off the leash. There was one person of color in the class I taught, none in the groups I met with. Everyone was nice. My despondency about the future of our country grew.

I was grateful to return to Los Angeles. I flew into LAX, into the smog, the crowded airport noisy with a dozen different languages and people of all kinds wearing everything from saris to tiny shorts with thigh-high boots. Maybe in the heart of Cincinnati there is just as much color and edginess and noise. I can’t be sure. But driving home to Echo Park, I sighed with relief at the real-world variety on the streets, the signs in Spanish and Korean and Arabic, the jumble of facades. I was even glad to see the tall man with the full shopping cart who lives in a tent near my freeway exit.

In Los Angeles the traffic is terrible, the corner strip malls are ugly, the drought is oppressive and we face a long list of knotty urban problems. Yet this is an open-hearted city; I know it’s trying. I am glad I live here, proud of its politics, its grit.

Not that it helped much in the weeks after the election. I was still in mourning. I figured I might as well go to a funeral.

More than 1,000 bodies go unclaimed in Los Angeles every year. The dead that no one comes for are homeless, or simply can’t be attached to next of kin. The coroner’s office works diligently to locate families. Its database includes name, age, hair and eye color, height and weight, so relatives can search for a loved one who’s gone missing. The bodies are kept for three years and then — sometime after Thanksgiving and before year’s end — the dead are cremated and buried together in a grave under a simple plaque stating the year of death. This year, the county buried the ashes of 1,430 souls, the unclaimed dead from 2013.

The service was presided over by the Rev. Chris Ponnet, Department of Spiritual Care at County USC Medical Center. He opened with, “We gather, we pause, we honor.” The Street Symphony Chamber Singers sang a lovely and haunting hymn. The reverend introduced Los Angeles County Supervisor Don Knabe, who has been attending these services for 20 years.

Knabe, retiring this year, poignantly reminded the gathered mourners that each of the 1,430 people being buried had been a baby once, once a young person with hopes and dreams. It was good to be reminded of that. Sometimes I see that crazy old woman yelling at the air in the library parking lot and I just want her to get out of the way. I forget how much we have in common.

A wide range of religious traditions was represented. The Lord’s Prayer and the 23rd Psalm were read by an Episcopalian, a Catholic, a Seventh Day Adventist in Spanish, and a Methodist minister in Korean. A rabbi sang the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, and then translated it from the Hebrew. A Native American burned sage, offered a prayer and a song. A Hindu pujari read from the Bhagavad Gita.

The imam who was scheduled to speak couldn’t make it, but a Muslim man read a prayer from the Koran. The word I heard most was “compassion.” And then “love” and “forgiveness.” When the Buddhist priest began his beautiful chant, a young man behind me chanted along. When the Lord’s Prayer was read, many people joined in.

There were almost 100 people in attendance. Some cried. All were quiet and respectful. I saw a guy in a top hat with beads braided into his beard, and a woman in a business suit with an expensive blond coiffure. There were all ages; Latinos and blacks and whites and as many men as women. I ran into a student of mine with her husband and small child. They had been to this ritual before and told me it’s the only religious thing they do during the holiday season. We laughed about them getting a dose of every religion at once. It’s all good, they said.

At the end Ponnet spoke again. It was brief, but it was perfect. He said in Los Angeles County we take care of the living and just as importantly we honor the dead — whoever they might be, high or low, all alone or surrounded by family.

I don’t want to bash Ohio. As I said, everyone was nice to me. But Cincinnati had 86 unclaimed dead in 2011 and it caused a scandal when the city broke a law to cremate and bury those 86. No ceremony, no dated plaque, just a blank metal circle for a marker. Los Angeles, meanwhile, has been honoring its dead with civility since 1896.

I looked at my fellow mourners and felt encouraged. This is a city with a soul, a sanctuary city. My sanctuary. A sanctuary for the living and the dead.

Diana Wagman has just published her first novel for young adults, “Extraordinary October.”

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