FEATURE | Pilgrimage to Mount Hope Cemetery
As I took an Uber from MBTA Forest Hills station to Mount Hope Cemetery, tens of thousands of headstones embedded in the 125-acre lawn unfolded in front of my eyes. This was a daunting place, built in 1852, holding about 30,000 graves, worth a spring stroll.
In the middle of the cemetery, two kid-size marble lions squatted on the oldest burial area for Boston’s Chinese immigrants. A Chinese couplet with calligraphic characters, engraved on the gate behind the lions, describes the long journey of Chinese immigrants and their settlement in America – “Long rivers flow from distant origins (源远流长)”; “abundant leaves flourish from deep roots (根深叶茂).” On a wall behind the gate, four characters caught my eye: “Remembering those who came before you.”
The Chinese Immigrants Memorial at Mount Hope Cemetery
Compared with other Americans’ tombs, Chinese headstones are much smaller, and thinner. Although Boston’s Chinese American community has been renovating the historical Chinese burial grounds, with more than 1500 graves, some headstones are still unrecognizable, dilapidated, and in disrepair.
In Chinese traditions, we revere and pay respect to our ancestors by sweeping and renewing tombs, burning paper money and incense, and making offerings to them, several times a year. When incense turns into smoke, the evil spirit is expelled. Some people in China even kowtow in front of altars or graves. Many Chinese, no matter if they are in China or overseas, take these rituals seriously, because, in our culture, how we treat our ancestors determines what our lives will be.
As I wandered near the Chinese burial grounds, a woman walked towards me, smiling. I asked for her name, and she gave me only her first name, Catharina. She was walking her 6-year-old dog, Leni. We chatted for a while. She is from Germany and lives with two kids and her husband, an American, in Mattapan. She enjoys walking her dog several times a week. She said she is fascinated by this beautiful place, and said this is not a sad place.
“Maybe because I don’t have any relatives buried here,” Catharina laughed. She knew many Chinese immigrants were buried here, but she didn’t know much about Chinese culture.
Bulldozers and trucks were parked beside a cottage. I meandered through the iron fence, and met with Paul Harris, the foreman of this cemetery. “Can I go with you to see burial process?” Harris points at the tip of his shoes that were stained with mud, and said, “You missed. I just buried one dead person today.”
When asked about whether he loves his job, Harris wagged his head and laughed, “I love it! Every day is great day, as long as you’re on the ground – not dead!”
Harris teased about Chinese burial rituals that forbid overlapping dead bodies – only one dead in one tomb. In contrast, Harris said that European Americans usually overlay one dead family member over another. “Why?” “You ask me? Ask your Chinese.” “Alright.”
Once, Harris was asked to remove a Chinese immigrant’s body buried in 1970 and send it to Logan International Airport. The bones were repatriated to China.
“That Chinese family said if the dead was not removed, the family would have bad luck,” Harris said, “You Chinese are nuts!”
A common phrase in China could explain – “fallen leaves return to the roots.” Many Chinese immigrants wish to be buried in their homeland before death, and their descendants must transport the bones.
Harris showed me at the rear of the cemetery, unmarked graves of the city’s indigent were placed sporadically. The influenza epidemic that spread in Boston between 1918 and 1919 killed 4,794 residents in the fall of 1918 alone. Thousands of people were cursorily buried here, without a decent plate, or even name. I asked Harris why they have no names on their graves. Harris said, “Because they were the city’s poor.”
Harris told me that there would be a funeral at 11:30 a.m. the next day. So I showed up. He let me stand a mile away from the funeral location and observe quietly without taking any pictures. Beside me were two concrete burial containers that weighted about 1,200 pounds. These coffins would only be used as back-ups for family in case they had no burial container.
Harris left me there and went straight to open the grave. A few minutes later, 11 cars trooped in the cemetery, and people in black clothing got off the cars, with leaden steps, mourning. As a burial case was lowered into the hole, the Catholic priest started praying for the deceased. Catholics believe that those dead will pass from physical world to the afterlife.
20 minutes later, two old grannies held each other, wiping tears with handkerchiefs. The crowd dispersed and left. Harris waved to me, signaling me to come closer. I stepped to the pit, seeing a grey coffin in there. This was a traditional burial rather than cremation.
Hanging over the headstone on the left to this grave were photos of two young boys, about fifteen years old, smiling. Harris told me that these two boys died from gunplay between rival gangsters, and it was he who buried them.
“Over the past five years, I have buried two thousand young kids killed by guns,” Harris said. “This country is crazy.”
Harris frowned, and warned me that this neighborhood is dangerous. According to the Boston Globe, from 2014 to 2017, the rate of serious crimes such as murder, rape, and assaults in Roxbury, Dorchester, and Mattapan have dropped between 10 and 22 percent, but these areas are still dangerous.
“Remember, you only come when we are here and never come alone after 5 p.m. When you get out of this cemetery, take taxi or Uber right way. It’s dangerous to walk on the street alone, especially for a woman,” said Harris.
He pointed to the hill on the north side of the cemetery, and warned me never get close to Wendy’s, a fast food restaurant at the crossroad of American Legion Highway and Walk Hill Street.
I asked how he kept safe. He looked into my eyes, and his crystal blue eyes are sharp and fearless. “When they look into my eyes, they know right way I have no fear, because I was born and raised here,” Harris said. “If I look into your eyes – like eyes of a deer in headlight, I can tell you are not from here.”
In the breeze, two Canada geese pecked seeds in grass, and waddled across the graves of those deceased in recent years.
I stood in front of the graves, took out sushi rolls from my bag, and wolfed down it. It was like a silent and tacit conversation between life and death.
As I walked on my way back to the gate, the styles of the headstones evolved. Puritan-style upright headstones lying along the pond had “death’s head,” a motif ornamented with wings, skull, or cross bones. This is meant to symbolize physical death and spiritual regeneration.
I trotted on the cracking trail, past evergreen pines, red maples, and a pavilion, to the hill, pausing in front of a three-meter-high Roman-style statue – a heroic, plump woman gripping a sword, standing on the base and wistfully gazing in the distance. The statue’s torso, made from limestone, is glossy, though eroded by rain and harsh wind.
I walked further, and saw a withered oak tree, on the right side of the trail, stretching its branches, which looked like claws with twisted fingernails. On the left, a bulletin read, “Mayor Martin J. Wash & the Citizens of Boston Honor Our Veterans: Both those who have served, and those currently serving.”
The veterans from the Grand Army of the Republic to the present are housed here, peaceful, honored. The flat, lawn-level markers, without decorative motifs but with brief inscriptions of name, birth date, death dates and the cross, were festooned with scattered garland, star-spangled banners, and balloons fluttering in the wind. On a balloon two words – “Happy Birthday” – were dazzling.
As I was waiting for a Uber to leave, a truck came roaring down the trek. Harris bent forward from the window, “You know where you are standing at?” “Um…” I looked at my Google map, which showed that Wendy’s is 0.2 miles away from me.
“When will your Uber come?” “In two munities.” “OK.” He drove away, waiving his hands in the cold wind.
Mount Hope Memorial is a place where you can find all forms of life – martyrs, athletes, Puritans, Catholics, unknown poor, immigrants, destined to be laid to rest. Visiting those who ever lived reminded me of present life, and the fact that we are all mortals.
