No Clapping

Today the class was told, no clapping! It is simply too loud, and there isn’t that much to celebrate. The sound baffles match our school colors, but they are ineffective. The antique windows rattle with applause. If you came here to be congratulated, I’ve got news for you. But if you came here, you’re in the right place.

This is the annual Cadaver Donation Gratitude Ceremony. The students have carved and drained and drilled and stitched. Presumably, they’ve learned something–they’ll soon graduate. There are black balloons tied to each folding chair, and shrimp cocktail reaching room temperature on the table in the back.

Of course, the bodies–hacked, divided, turned inside out–are not on stage. There are no pictures, and they are well beyond family now. Names will be read quietly and quickly by an administrator and then they’ll play, “What A Wonderful World.” In fact, the carcasses were incinerated two weeks ago.

A small group is gathered in the parking lot, the type of Christians who worship the misery of others. Their leader holds a sign that reads, “I Am The Resurrection.” It’s starting to rain, and their righteousness will cool like a sizzling campfire.

I saw the bodies before they were burned, just the ingredients of people, really, smears, scrapings, chunks. It’s a species-wide humiliation to glimpse.

Me? I have experienced all the prerequisite crises. I am on schedule. I have often been a sounding board, which is ok, or a scapegoat. I have assumed or aspired to leadership roles. I’ve grappled for decades with the fact that this thing in my head is me, but also tells me what to do, makes me sad, etc. I have tried to collect as much data as I could. I’ve processed various poisons, explored exotic menus, been to a decent amount of places. I have even known love.

No one gets to talk to me like that ever again. It’s been researched that noise can take years off of your life.