Sunday

"Do you hear me?" My father shouted, standing in the doorway of my bedroom. "We have to get up and get ready. We have to go soon." He left without another word and shut the door behind him. That's how nearly every Sunday started.
My father made me go to the funeral every weekend there was one because he wanted me to learn our culture and meet my relatives; he said the funeral was a great way to do both. As the oldest son in a Hmong Family, it was my responsibility to do just that. I tried telling my father I was busy with other things, anything to get me out of going. And every time I told him that, he said I had to grow up and be responsible. Every time. We would arrive to the funeral in the same manner: he and I would shake the hands of every man we saw. Man, to be exact, because my culture is one from which men are the dominant gender in the household.
"This is your cousin. He plays the Qeej very well."
"This is your uncle. He collects the donations for funding the funeral."
"This is my uncle. He has three daughters who all have Master's degrees."
But what I heard most from my father was this...
"Do you hear me?"
As I followed him, exploring and examining the numerous processes of a funeral, he would tell me that what I was doing was wrong, that I would never learn the culture if I didn't try. Quite honestly, I didn't want to.
"Do you hear me? Do not cut the meat that way! No one will eat that!"
"Do you hear me? You cannot put the paper over there!"
"Do you hear me? Put your hand here!"
I never spoke or expressed myself, but every time he told what I was doing was wrong, I would ask myself why I had to learn this culture. We live in America now, why are we still butchering cows or plucking the chickens with our own hands? Why can't we just purchase a clean chicken or portions of beef from the store? I hated Sundays, despite it being the weekend. But I never hated a Sunday more than today.
Because today, on this Sunday, is my father's funeral. I am standing over his body that is neatly pressed into the casket. His hands are held atop his chest, his fingers intertwined. His eyes are closed. A dim light casts over us that reflects the beautifully knit decorations in the Hmong clothing that he wears and the faint shine from the several coins attached to his shirt.
But I don't hate today because my father is gone. I hate today because today is the day I let my father down. Today is the day I couldn't chop meat the right way, today is the day I couldn't play the Qeej, today is the day I couldn't beat the accompanying drum, today is the day I couldn't recognize my cousins and relatives. I hate today because today is the day I have to ask my father what he always asked me. As I stand over his body, my hands clutching his, I open my mouth. "Do you hear me? I love you, dad."