Visiting My Grandparents as Samhain begins
Today I went with my daughter Goldie (2) to visit Holy Sepulchre cemetery in Rochester, NY (Haudenosaunee land, Turtle Island). It struck me as I was looking up their gravesite that I haven’t been to the plot since my Nana, Mary Theresa Finucane (née Morrissey) was buried there in May of 2012. I think of my Nana every day. I interface with several items that were hers daily - my favorite adjustable lamp that I use when making art, a lovely avocado green bedside lamp that’s come back into fashion, and a stainless steel butter dish come to mind.
I haven’t visited their graves because I’ve always felt that my spiritual connection to them is present regardless of where their physical remains rest. And while I still believe that, I felt the need to be closer to them today, the start of Samhain (pronounced Sow-en), the Celtic festival marking the coming of winter. It is a time when the veil between this world and the Otherworld is thinnest. I wanted especially to connect with my Nana, who was the only paternal grandparent I spent time with on this plane. We liked spending time together making things with our hands. I have fond memories of listening to Dr. Laura with her on her front porch doing just that.
A few weeks ago, I had a beautiful tarot reading where the reader, Lis, reminded me that Día de los Muertos was coming up. She told me that my grandmother - in her words, the one with whom I used to do things with my hands - is firmly in my corner, and that connecting with her will give me all the guidance I need. I believe her. I dream of my Nana sometimes. In the most recent dream, she gave me an important message. We are, as I have long believed, deeply connected in the spiritual realm.
Last week, I watched Kubo and the Two Strings with my husband James and Goldie. The movie is set in Japan, and there are a few scenes referencing ancestral veneration. That, combined with the reading about my grandmother, inspired me to bring Goldie to visit my grandparent’s physical resting place with the great-granddaughter they never met in this life.
We went to the wrong area of the cemetery at first. Holy Sepulchre is enormous - but I figured it was worth a try. Goldie enjoyed herself running around and hiding behind the gravestones. She delights in all things spooky, and seemed to make connections between Halloween references to cemeteries and the place we landed. I told her I’d give her more “natural gummy bears” (read: raisins - which if you think of them as gummy bears makes them really creepy because their little bodies are scarily desiccated).
Anyways - we did make it back to the car, and went to the cemetery office where a very nice lady gave me detailed instructions on locating my grandparent’s shared headstone. We got out of the car and there were four deer grazing nearby. It is good to see animals in a small child’s company. Wondrous. And, I believe, a nice sign of welcome from those we were visiting.
We found their shared headstone amidst the many Italian and Irish names and occasional names of Polish, German, and various other nationalities. A flat headstone, sharp-looking, with dead grass clippings resting in the engraving. Two Celtic crosses, one in each upper corner. My grandparents’ names. They were both born in Tarbert, County Kerry, Ireland and moved to Rochester when my Papa was 48 and Nana was 37. As I mentioned, Nana’s name was Mary Finucane. My Papa’s name was Thomas Finucane. He was born on December 23rd, 1912 and died on July 19th, 1976. His daughter, my Aunt Mary Jo and her husband Jay have thrown a big party every year on December 23rd since 1977 to honor his birthday.
My grandfather was a prodigious musician - so much so that the Rochester branch of the Comholtas Irish Musicians Fellowship is named after him. It makes me sad to think I never heard him play his mandolin, accordion, or fiddle. The epitaph on the headstone reads, “MUSIC MADE HERE,” and below that, the Irish translation, “CEOL CUMTHA ANSEO.” My dad told me once that his dad and his musician friends would sometimes play so late on Saturday nights at the Harps Club that they’d leave the Harps Club and go straight to Sunday mass. I think about this and many other pieces of lore often. I wonder about these people, who lived through hard times I can only imagine, and loved to party and make music. Music made here, indeed.
Accessing authentic traditional Celtic spiritual practices is tricky, as since Roman times, the people of Ireland have experienced the cultural assaults and attempted erasure that come with colonization. Though there is a strong tradition of mythical storytelling Ireland - I’ve been steeping in that and even have a relative who’s a Seanchaí, a traditional Irish storyteller. I am grateful to have brought bits and pieces of ancestral veneration into my spiritual practice over the years, mostly from other cultures. Some from people of European ancestry seeking to connect with their lineages, a bit from learning about Mexican Día de los Muertos traditions, and most especially from Black American women whose ancestors were brought to Turtle Island via chattel slavery from West Africa.
Offerings to those who have passed on are common in many cultures - especially in South and East Asia. Borrowing from this tradition, we brought some offerings. My nana drank Salada English Breakfast tea with sugar and 2% milk. I assume my grandfather also drank tea. Goldie helped me empty the contents of 4 teabags (2 for each of them - morning and night tea) as offerings, and we left 3 slices of lemons for Nana. The impact of poverty never left her - even though she could afford lemons later in life, she didn’t buy them, preferring to save that money instead. So, lemons for Nana. Goldie tapped her finger on the tea-covered lemon and put it in her mouth - she liked the taste of tea leaves and lemon juice. I added some dried sage and lavender from my garden, too. I cried. I told Nana I miss her. It felt good.
When I think about how racism hurts everyone, I think about the monolith of ‘whiteness.’ Whiteness erases the cultural history of people with European roots in the name of a fictional identity based on pale-skinned supremacy. Whiteness, as in white supremacy, relies on an active forgetting of the past. Because if we looked honestly at what country singer Tyler Childers referred to in his 2020 album as our Long, Violent History, we would have to reckon with it. And since that would be incredibly painful, costly, and deadly to the systems relying heavily on white supremacy for their existence, it is not done in the mainstream. Instead, the past is obliterated, smoothed over, and rewritten. Attacks on DEI, critical race theory are prime examples of our white supremacist culture’s obsession with avoiding the fruits of oppression’s sown seeds.
Ancestral veneration is critical in many cultures - especially those long-connected with their roots. The Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address, for example, honors and sends greetings to the grandfathers, the Thunderers, and to their oldest Grandmother, the Moon. As I grieve the impact of English colonialism on my Irish ancestors and feel the weight of that trauma today, I am so grateful for the tenacity of Indigenous cultures worldwide, because they help me to connect with my culture. I also look forward to more deep diving into my own Irish heritage and sharing what I learn with Goldie.
