Funeral Photos

For every wake I've attended, I found a collage of the deceased's photos proudly displayed by the casket. They got me thinking of what my highlight still-frames would be, what it would take for a new photo to muscle out some of my existing lineup.

Over the weekend, I took a picture that will display at my funeral. It will find its place alongside a shot of me free-falling and posing as a prima donna. If the curators I leave behind decide on chronological order, it will follow me sitting fireside by a snowbank, drink in hand, smiling to someone offscreen.

I gauge a picture’s candidacy by likes on social media. To have potential, a picture needs 30 affirmations from my circle of friends. Over 50, and the image may as well be gold bordered with the words “In loving memory of,” hanging overhead.

General photos, I prepare for. I round my eyes out to avoid them looking beady. I hug my top lip to my tooth line to hide my deep set gums. These precautions help in looking satisfactory. Funeral photos, however, abide by a contrary set of principles. Those times, the wind seems to move a certain speed, or the sun seems to hit a certain angle, because my eyes never look how I want them to. My mouth, too, misses cues; a half inch or more of pink membrane shows along my lip, emphasizing my crooked teeth. In fact, the picture from the weekend - my most well received photo, and therefore, my most funeral worthy - shows me with my eyes shut and my lips pulled up to a pencil line. Though I try to prevent this version of myself for the camera, this eye squinting, gum showing character will be my epitaph.

The No Clothes State

The sunscreen takeover began in aisle seven of Health & Beauty. Following California's declaration as a No Clothes State, off-brand sunscreens cropped up to invade the store shelves. The lotions cleared out first, dead stock once UV skincare doubled as moisturizer.

Soon, the entire aisle showcased sunscreens, segregated like liquors by color, type, and strength - cream versus copper, scented or not, SPF numbers climbing by the tens.

Those who refused the product stood out with their pink complexion, rubbed raw by daytime rays. In a marketing ploy, Banana Boat featured commercials mocking toasted skin, choosing unattractive actors to play unwanted hermits. The strategy failed, however, and what came instead was a statewide boycott of the brand.

Consumer analysts - floored by California’s solidarity - enlisted reporters to take to the streets and hear from the people. One such woman offered, “We’re vulnerable enough as it is.”

Inside the store, the sunscreens spread into neighboring aisles, claiming mascara racks and lip gloss displays. Once an antiperspirant formula developed, the sunscreens annexed an entire department, but even the expanded floorspace fell short to the demand. With no other sales space, specialty sunscreens found placement behind the pharmaceutical window, muscling out the anti-depressants.

Novel Chapter

It started with Baboy, which is Tagalog for ‘pig.’  At the time, I wobbled with my weight, and of the few things that fit me was that nickname.  Other kids loved its sound so much, they made it a game to blend it into pop music.  People said it to feel their lips smack between syllables, like a basketball coming to rest: Ba, boy, baboy, bababoy, boy.  Even when shouted, people played with which half to stress: BA-Aboy, or BabO-OY. Remy never could decide, so he bounced between both.

At Filipino parties, it’s custom to serve lechon - a whole pig skewered over a fire spit, roasted until the skin crusts a quarter inch through. Once, when we finished our plates in the kids’ room, Remy faked starving for more lechon.  Instead of leaving the room to get a second helping, he poked me with his fork and dragged it along my shoulder.  He brought it to his lips, rolled his eyes, and said, “Wow.  We should’ve just cooked you.”  The kids snickered, and Remy smiled at them.  “Hey, Baboy, I have a serious question.”  He nudged me with his elbow.  “Come on, it’s serious.”

“What are you going to ask him?” some kid said.  Remy stooped with his hands on his knees, met me where I sat.  “How’d you get to be so fat?  My mom says there’s lots of reasons people are fat.  She says it could be jean etiquette, but most times it’s cause the person eats the wrong thing - like really oily food - and the person eats too much of it.  Like, way more than he needs to live.”  He poked my belly, grinned at how his finger indented. “So, which one’s your reason?  Hm?”  Other kids joined in, “Yeah, which one is it; I bet it’s the oily food one, What’s jean etiquette; Tell us, please?”

How it turned into ‘Playdough,’ my memory blurs.  But play dough can be molded into balls, into lumps, and into rolls.  It can be squashed into pancakes and indented with just a finger.  I forget the reasons surrounding it, but Remy made sure that name stuck.