Covid, Atomization and Funerals
The air hung heavy with a somber sadness as I stood before the small gathering of mourners in the funeral parlor home. It was a stark contrast to the bustling funerals of my grandparents just a decade earlier, where friends, neighbors, and distant relatives joined together to bid farewell to their loved ones. In the post-covid era with declining fertility and social atomization, the difficulty of funerals and mourning has taken on a new meaning.
My uncle was a quiet man with a gentle soul who had lost his battle with cancer. His death revealed our diminished family structure. He had been a cherished brother to my father and his two other siblings, but the number of nieces and nephews left behind could be counted on one hand. My uncle’s son and I are the only ones with kids of our own. Our family tree slims down rather than branches out. Only my cousin and I stood as his surviving nephews, and our presence highlighted the emptiness that had come to define our family gatherings. I visited him a few weeks before his death when he decided “no mas” to treatments that would possibly give him an extra month of life in anguish. As his one son told me this spring as I left, my uncle was ready.
Once I got the call, I offered my condolences and to give a eulogy so my cousin would not be put on the spot. I did not want my cousin to carry that burden. It was hard enough as his only child to arrange everything. As I prepared to deliver the eulogy, I couldn't help but recall the more dynamic funerals of my grandparents. Those occasions had been grand affairs, filled with people from near and far who had been touched by their lives. Our grandfather was a Korean War veteran and volunteer in the church, so elders from those groups showed up. It was a moment of shared memories, stories, and even laughter, as our extended family and friends gathered to celebrate his legacy and tell us little tales we did not know. The funeral proceedings and gathering at my aunt’s house after echoed with warmth and celebration.
But now, as I glanced around the room, I saw only the faces of close relatives. The guest list was small. Social atomization had taken its toll, eroding the once-rich tapestry of connections that had formerly defined our lives. We lived the effects of modernity on family size. It seemed that in this era of declining fertility, we were left with smaller social circles, fewer opportunities for meaningful interactions, and a growing sense of isolation. My cousin revealed that the funeral home had taken pieces of covid protocols and adapted them going forward as they fit for smaller families. While my grandfather had his three sons and three grandsons as pallbearers, we had a mix of family and two employees of the funeral home.
As I began my eulogy, I spoke of my uncle's kindness, his quirky hobbies, and the way he had shaped my life. I shared the seemingly little things he shared with me that really had big effects. The weight of the emptiness in the room was palpable, and it struck me how it was just me speaking compared to the multiple eulogies given for my grandparents. The mood felt far more depressing, far less celebratory.
After the funeral, I found solace in conversations with my cousin at my aunt’s house. She had assumed the role my grandmother formerly held. We reminisced about our childhood and the bond we had shared with our uncle as he took us to every action movie debut that our mothers disapproved. The one painful point was my cousin wondered if his two, young kids would remember their grandfather. I could not answer. The absence of others—friends and distant relatives—was a constant reminder of the changing dynamics in our society. Our grief was confined to a smaller circle.
In the days that followed, I couldn't help but wonder about the decline in social circles and the impact it had on our ability to mourn. In an era where extended families are becoming smaller, the sense of loss felt more painful, fewer people around to share the burden. It seemed that the very fabric of our society was unraveling, leaving us adrift.
As I reflected on the past, I realized that funerals had once served as a unifying force, bringing families and even communities together in shared grief. They were an opportunity to find solace in the presence of others, to lean on the support of extended networks, and to celebrate the lives of those we had lost. But now, with limited attendance and dwindling connections, funerals had become more intimate yet somehow lonelier affairs. It burned thinking how ridiculous covid protocols would somehow have a permanent effect on humanity’s oldest ritual.
The difficulty of funerals and mourning in this era is not merely about the logistics or the number of attendees. It is about the loss of a sense of community, the erosion of shared connections, and the diminishing social circles that had once provided comfort in times of grief. As I left the small gathering with my wife and kids, I silently vowed to cherish the memories I had of my uncle and to fight against the isolation that threatened to define our future. People were angry at the limitations state governments placed on our oldest ritual. No one considered how small and empty funerals will be forced to be in our atomized future. Governments had forced smaller funerals. Our decisions now make them self-imposed.