I Know Why Men Stand Outside at Funerals

It's a parallel that used to vex me. Women gathered in large groups, praying, cooking, serving tea with thinly sliced pieces of cake. Meanwhile, the men stood outside in idle clusters, appearing only when a large tray of food was required. 

I never quite understood that – why the burden of society fell on us. Were these big, strong men too mighty to make a cup of tea? Well, couldn't they at least sit down quietly as the visitors imparted words of comfort? I noted it in my journal one day: if I had a son, he would NOT be outside at times like these. He had to bear the burden too. He would certainly not sit like a prince waiting to be attended. 

This was what it meant to be human, I thought. If someone died, we showed up. We put aside our many comforts and lended our hands and shoulders. I felt very proud of my observation and decided to share it – often. At best, I was met with amusement, at worst, plain indifference. This is just the way things are. This only incited me more. 

Then... the funeral day came. While we women sat down in the church pews, the men lifted the casket and set up the display, they assisted the hearse to park, and availed their cars to lift people to the gravesite. Something they didn't teach at any schools, or in my many books, was that a grave was picked out a few days before. But it needed to be secured, cleaned up. Sometimes there was lots of mud that needed to be broken up. 

As we women stood, singing hymns, trying to keep the sting out of our eyes, the men got down on their knees and shifted the soil. They secured the casket and let it down with devastating gentleness. Then they covered it with soil. Boys, teenagers and old men alike, worked together to unpack the hardened ground. They took turns and wiped their brows. They arranged stones and flowers with something like an artistic flair. 

I suddenly saw myself through their eyes: my shoes were much too high to do dig in the dirt, my dress too fine. In that moment, I saw in real time the true value of men, who'd not attended the service, but remained outside and waited to be of service. They had dressed for the sole purpose of getting to work. Their strength didn't make me weak, so much as... complete.

For the men, showing up meant manual work, things they could tinker and fix. What I had considered important labour, sitting and consoling, nurturing and feeding everyone who walked in, telling stories and anecdotes... they considered that being idle. It simply required a different kind of hand. Could the men have made an effort to show up differently? Absolutely. 

But there was still work that needed to be done. Under my cloud of grief, it had not occurred to me during the week, who was driving around for groceries, stacking chairs and cutting the trees. Both kinds of strengths were needed. We were not unequal, but different. 

We wouldn't have been able to sweep had they not lifted the furniture. We wouldn't have been able to eat had they not contributed funds and drove back and forth at our whim. We wouldn't have been able to seat the comforters had they not provided chairs. We couldn't have held the service had they not pitched the tent. 

Poetry aside, there's no denying that the amount of labour carried by men vs women is glaringly disproportionate: 

1) Not every man who stood outside had come to be of service to the family. 

2) While they, albeit patiently, waited to play their part, ours never seemed to end. 

3) When it finally did, there was no plate of warm food waiting for us. 

I mean, it's not as if we are genetically predisposed to be nurturing and empathetic. This role was thrust upon us against our will; taught, not with gentle understanding, but with fear and shame. We were conditioned to serve endlessly, and never be on the receiving end. 

Or perhaps I am feeling prickly because I've watched male relatives tread muddy shoes in the house without any regard for the freshly cleaned floors. Or leave dirty plates wherever they liked, as if they thought there was a mysterious cosmic force cleaning up after them and not a human being. 

It almost reminded me of the astronauts struggling to readjust on Earth – dropping things in mid-air without any doubt that they would stay afloat. I can't help but look at men and think, theirs is a life with no gravity. The weight that keeps us grounded and holds us accountable for how we take up space. The force that keeps us tethered to each other and responsible for our fellow man. 

There's nothing that suggests that these roles can't be redefined or repurposed for the benefit of all, and not a single group. Which isn't to say we should do deny our natural strengths, but why not combine them with empathy and consideration? 

If you like working with your hands, then use them to uplift your community and protect others. Use your hands to show kindness and compassion. If you have a knack for leadership, use your authority to speak out against harmful behaviour. If you prefer concrete solutions over abstract conversation, show up in a real way – anticipate others' needs and consider them. 

We may not know what a real man or real woman looks like in this day and age, some of us may not have had good examples modelled for us. But we could learn how to be better human beings, in the way that we treat others, and especially ourselves. We can help each other in our weaknesses – by leading with love instead of anger. Even when we think we have all the answers. 

Our picture is never quite complete until we understand that we each hold the missing piece.