Holy Land: Part II
RESPONDING TO D.J. WALDIE: HOLY LAND (PP. 96-END)
In section 247 of Holy Land, D.J. Waldie discusses the lack of cemeteries in his Lakewood subdivision. Places to bury the dead were not included in the original layout plans and “there’s not enough empty space left to lay a cemetery out” (135). This has resulted in the residents of Lakewood burying their dead in cemeteries outside of the Lakewood grid. Most of the Catholic dead (including Waldie’s own parents) are buried in a cemetery in the neighboring city of Long Beach. Similar to how all of life is ordered in this place the cemetery exists as a grid. However, even this space is prone to moments of the pragmatic, as Waldie illuminates by telling the reader that his own parents graves “face east, toward the city in which I live” (136).
This issue of where to bury the dead is one faced by all cities and towns, and there is much to be learned from the pragmatic choices made to address it. Within a city like Boston it is not at all uncommon to come across ancient cemeteries situated in the heart of dense urban development that has grown up around the headstones and markers. Perhaps at one time these places existed on the periphery of the city, but with the rapid urbanization and growth (a hallmark of America’s large east coast port cities) they have now become an unexpected part of everyday life. This contrasts sharply with the design of a city like San Francisco. Though comparable in size to Boston it is impossible to find cemeteries within the city limits of San Francisco. In the planning stages it was determined that ordinances and regulations would prevent the rise of cemeteries in the city proper, leading to their growth and emergence in the hinterlands outside of town (in places like Oakland and Berkeley).
In thinking about cemeteries a central question becomes, what (if any) value is achieved when the living and the dead co-mingle in a shared space. Is there something crucial to the lived memory cemeteries provide that helps make place fully realized? In a very real and vital sense the dead do serve as crucial bridge figures in tying us to place. The dead are threshold beings (quite literally existing between two worlds in the nutrient cycle) that serve as dynamic figures linking us to the deep human history of any given place. It is through our dead that we can track dynamic changes in a place and potentially humanize the seemingly formless mass of history.
Today most of the family I love who have died lay buried in Mount Olivet Cemetery. It is a place that was founded by stationed federal troops in the 19th century as an alternative to the Salt Lake City Cemetery, which at the time was seen as a place made for Mormons. Wander the grounds of Mount Olivet and it quickly becomes clear that this is the final home for many of the working class immigrants who composed a crucial part of Utah’s labor force in the 19th and 20th centuries. The reasons that led these people here are as splintered and numerous as the sea of tombstones that line the cemetery in pervasive grid fashion.
Many of the Greeks (of whom my family was part) came to America with an amulet filled with soil from their motherland tied around the neck. This was done so that in the event these individuals died in a foreign land the Greek Orthodox priest would have a piece of their home to scatter on their earthly remains. When I visit Mount Olivet, I am reminded of the dynamic tension between worlds that existed for my ancestors. This reminder is a bridge between worlds deepens my own love for this Great Basin space I have inherited and call home. I am glad that there are cemeteries where I live. My world wouldn’t feel the same without them.