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Michigan in Color
Wednesday, October 13, 2021 — 7
Altar: Finding beauty in loss
R&B
singer
Kehlani
has
experienced a great deal of loss
and portrays their resulting grief in
unconventional ways through music.
In their latest single, “Altar,” they
celebrate the impact and the lives of
those who have passed, emphasizing
that just because a loved one is gone,
they don’t need to be forgotten.
This song feels incredibly personal
because of my experience with loss.
My aunt passed away almost six
years ago and I still have a hard time
coping with the fact she’s really gone.
A picture of her and me remains on
my lock screen just so I won’t forget
what she looks like. My heart aches
profoundly when I look back on the
time I had with her. I think about
everything I took for granted and
the million different things I wish I
could say to her and ask her. I wish
that I could hug her again, see her
smile and hear her infectious laugh
in real-time.
“Altar’s” upbeat tone, which
challenges the somber tone that
often comes with songs on grief,
drives me to pay attention to the
memories I have left of my aunt,
rather than the heartbreak that
remains. The song offers a sense of
comfort and shows me that there
is beauty in loss, so long as I grow
to appreciate why I feel pain when
thinking about her. “Altar” radiates
warmth and happiness, expressing
the power of grief and acceptance.
It feels like a gleam of sunshine after
days of seemingly endless darkness
and storms. It reminds me that the
reason why I’m still so insistent on
keeping her memory fresh in my
mind is that she taught me how to
love so deeply. Instead of feeling
regret from failing to enjoy the
moments I shared with loved ones,
this song challenges me to think
about why I care so much about
keeping them alive.
Listening to “Altar,” or even
thinking about its lyrics, challenges
me to empathetically change how I
perceive life without my aunt. People
constantly say that loved ones who
have passed are “gone, but never
forgotten” and that they will live in
our hearts forever. But I don’t think
I truly understood what that meant
until hearing this song’s lyrics. I try
not to beat myself up over the fact
that it is taking me so long to cope
with her death, because as Kehlani
so gracefully sang in her song, I’m
keeping her alive, because I want to
and I am able to. There is no reason
for me to get over her death until, or
if I ever feel the need to. The fact that
a desire to keep her alive remains so
strong almost six years later should
empower me to keep going and
honor her every day.
My aunt’s passing still causes me
pain. But being able to recognize,
even for a second, that the reason
why I may feel so much grief over
her is that the love we shared for
each other was profound when she
was here, and remains just as strong
today, is enough to get me through
the day.
“Altar” is not the first time that
I have been pushed to view loss in
a positive light, but I think that its
message came at a time when I was
finally ready to accept that grief
doesn’t always have to be filled with
shame and regret. “Altar” has aided
my growth towards acceptance
in ways I never thought possible. I
am forever grateful to Kehlani for
sharing this art.
“Gossip
Girl,”
“Pretty
Little
Liars,”
“Glee”
and
“Riverdale”
are all TV shows that share
two large similarities: They are
incredibly popular and the main
cast of teenagers is played by adults,
sometimes 15 years older.
There are many technical reasons
producers choose to hire actors
much older than the character they
play. For one, most teenagers and
minors under 18 can only work
under a highly restricted number of
hours due to labor laws. Their time
on set has to revolve around their
schooling, rest and meals. Actors
under 16 also need to have a guardian
on set as they work. But despite these
technicalities, it is hard to justify
shows like “Riverdale,” where the
average age gap disparity between
actors and the roles they play is a
solid 8.25.
It’s not the number of years that
seems to be a problem, but more
so the time frame selected. If a
58-year-old actor plays a 50-year-old
character, the harm that reaches the
audience is significantly less than if a
28-year-old adult plays a 16-year-old
student, which also happens to be
the age difference between Stacey
Dash and her character Dionne
Davenport in the renowned classic
“Clueless.” This is because 10 years
is a huge time difference when
you’re younger. Most of us likely
don’t change as much, physically
or emotionally, when we go from
50 to 60, but when we go from
10 to 20, we may be practically a
new person. Between the ages 10
and 20, we change physically and
mature emotionally. Most of us start
this time frame at the beginning
of middle school and end it in our
college years. Think about how
much we changed in this period.
A lot of us have the majority of our
“firsts” during this time — first job,
first year of college, first time living
independently and so on. When a
15-year-old looks at the screen, at
what they are “supposed” to look like
according to the media’s latest beauty
standards, they are comparing
themselves to people, in some cases,
nearly a decade older than they are.
They are forced into reevaluating
themselves because perhaps the
small student in high school with
a face full of hormonal acne feels
they are supposed to look like a
30-year-old professional model. It
perpetuates unrealistic standards,
dragging a bag full of insecurities
along with it. Being a teenager is
hard enough as it is; we don’t need
an increase in unachievable beauty
standards.
It’s not all just unachievable
physical standards. Quite often,
shows that revolve around high
school life have a large added element
of romance or sexual relationships.
It’s not completely accurate to say
high school is devoid of all romantic
associations, but for most of us,
it’s nothing as over-sexualized as
Riverdale. Often, older actors are
hired because of how unethical it
is to have minors play out sexually
explicit content. But there seems to
be a much bigger, overlying problem:
If you can’t get actual teenagers to
play out a teenage character, chances
are that your character isn’t doing
what normal teenagers do. Watching
this kind of explicit content forces
teens who have only just started to
figure themselves out to mature at
a rate that may be too fast for them,
a process that deprives them of
reflecting on who they really are and
who they want to be in the future.
As my mother struggled to force
open the door that had been sealed
for months, dust blew through the
air. The purple walls in the garage
were no longer the pretty lavender
I loved, but a gloomy gray from the
layers of dust and faded memories.
I turned to the right and looked for
the white car my grandfather used
to drive my brother and me in. I
was met with empty space and a
reminder that the car was sold.
I’ve been in that car less than
a handful of times. But when I
was, those were some of the few
moments I was able to spend with
my grandfather. He’d drive us to
the only mall in our small town — a
mall that also functioned as a hotel,
restaurant and playground. I’d run
into the ice cream shop that only sold
the wrapped cones that you could
find at every store and grab one from
their freezer, finishing it before my
grandfather even had a chance to pay.
Then we’d make our way up to a red
booth in the top-floor restaurant, my
favorite in all of India, and eat the
same meal I get at every restaurant
— naan and paneer. My brother and I
would share the food and each order a
different flavor of lassi and split. We’d
be the only ones at the restaurant,
which makes sense since I now realize
the food was mediocre at best. But at
the time, I thought the food was the
best in town. The entire restaurant
would smell like a mix of every spice,
ironic since the food was bland.
The empty garage connects to
my grandparent’s office. I stepped
over the broken door frame that
guarded the office and noticed the
layer of gray dust coating my foot.
The green walls looked the same as
they did the last time I was there —
untouched. After my grandfather
passed, the office became a time
capsule, opened only to enter and
leave the building or as a room for
my grandmother to speak with
my grandfather’s old clients who
kept coming to talk about their
case files from years and years
ago since he was their lawyer. The
normally crowded room filled with
loud clients from all over town
was uncomfortably silent. When I
entered, I hesitated before I looked
up to see his empty chair and cleared
desk — a desk that was normally
covered in case files.
My brother and I would sneak
around and peek into the office when
my grandfather had clients over. We’d
move the curtain that covered the
dividing glass door and quietly laugh
from the living room, joking about
the clients who’d glare through the
door. Then, if we were bold, we’d open
the door and bolt into the office. We’d
laugh or pretend there was something
important to tell our grandfather, but
we really just wanted to get a look at
the clients and eavesdrop.
The living room was the same
shade as the garage. Pictures of all
the grandchildren, our parents’
weddings and the Hindu gods
my grandmother prays to every
morning covered the wall. Splotches
of water damage covered the top
parts of the walls, and the previous
paint job shined through them.
I wasn’t allowed into part of the
attached dining room and bathroom
because the ceiling had collapsed
there. The window behind the box
TV was too small to let in a lot of
light, and it was distorted so people
couldn’t see inside and we couldn’t
see outside. The window in the back
blocked off any ounce of sunlight
because my grandmother covered it
with blankets for a reason I forgot to
ask her about. But even with the dust
and the damage and the covered
windows, the room was still oddly
bright from the nostalgia and joy
that beamed from the pictures.
I would spend most of the time in
my grandparent’s living room when
I was at their house. My brother and
I would lay on the cot and watch
Harry Potter movie marathons all
day with the air conditioning pointing
directly at us on high so that when
the power went out, the room would
stay somewhat cold until the air
returned two hours later. We would
wait patiently for the power to come
back and the minute it did, we would
continue our marathon, never moving
from the cot. Our grandmother would
come and give us homemade dosas
and chutney for dinner, and we’d
scarf it down in the living room as the
marathon played on.
I walked past my grandfather’s
locked bedroom — it sent a slight
shiver through my body — and made
my way to the bedroom my mother
and aunt once shared. The red paint
was peeling off the walls, and the
only working light was the sunlight
hitting the distorted windows.
A few crows sat right outside the
window cawing, breaking any
silence in the room. The hot air
burned my skin. The fan and air
conditioner no longer worked. A
sadness loomed over me when I saw
the murals my brother and I painted
as kids tattered from the aged paint.
I took a breath in and was hit with
the pungent smell of mothballs,
a smell so familiar to me, yet, one
that I hadn’t smelled in years. The
windows were covered with my
cousins’ paintings from when they
were little, over 25 years ago, dull,
but still intact.
Whenever
I
visited
my
grandparent’s home in India, my
entire family including my aunts and
cousins would all sleep in this room.
We’d watch TV and talk for hours. My
grandmother would tell us her best
stories as I played with my toys. She’d
talk about my parents and my aunts
and my uncles. She’d tell me about my
cousins who were all much older than
me, and the things they did when they
were little.
Just before leaving to go back to
my aunt’s house (12 hours away by
train), I went out onto the terrace.
I was met with burning dry air,
hotter than that from my mother’s
room. The sun was beating onto
the concrete, so every step I made
burned my feet. The brightness
blinded my eyes for a short second
while I adjusted from being inside
a room of darkness. The clothesline
that we used to dry our clothes
every few days had fallen and was
laying on the ground. My toy scooter
sat in the corner next to the fallen
line, unusable, completely rusted
and dusty. I looked to the side
and saw the other entrance to my
grandfather’s room. A large heavy
silver lock held the door closed. I
stared at it for a few minutes with
a pit in my stomach as my mind
went blank. The same emptiness
in my head I felt years before at his
funeral.
Design by Grace Aretakis
Design by Meghana Tummala
MARIA PATTON
MiC Columnist
Teenage characters should be played by teens,
not decades-older adults
The pink house on that
one street
SYEDA RIZVI
MiC Columnist
ROSHNI MOHAN
MiC Columnist
Read more at
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Read more at
MichiganDaily.com