The longer I live in the states, the less willing I am to tell the truth about where I'm really from. It's not that I'm trying to be mysterious. Just that as I've aged and become more adept at reading people's facial expressions, I've realized no one really wants to listen to me spout fifteen minutes of well-rehearsed claptrap about Certificates of American Birth Abroad and whatnot.
Instead, I tell people I'm from Newport Beach, California.
My mom's side of the family has been out there since there really were orange groves in Orange County. So it's legit.
There are distinct advantages to claiming I'm Californian. It explains my chronic tardiness and lets me utter inane valley-girlisms like "for realies" with impunity. Besides, ever since The OC, the place has had a certain crass panache that New Englanders find slightly frightening.
I just never thought I'd identify with the place. That I'd pine for its bobbing oil derricks, the petrochemical tang looming above the I-405/I-55 interchange; that in some small way I'd feel like actually belonged there. After all, I only lived there for three years.
Despite my international pedigree, the source of this upwelling of uncharacteristic sentimentality is quite pedestrian. Over the winter break my maternal grandmother and grandfather died within two weeks of one another, and as the only able-bodied McGirk on the continent I was obligated to accompany my mother to the funeral.
I had my own debts to repay. They'd taken me in for a few months after my first, disastrous attempt at college. And I owe my life to my grandfather. Not only in the abstract sense that he contributed approximately a quarter of my DNA. He once saved me from drowning, yanking me out of a bathtub in Madrid after everyone else had passed out from carbon monoxide poisoning.
I arrived the night before the funeral. I was met at John Wayne Airport by my mom and aunt, who recounted my grandparents' final months at the hospice while I gnawed on leftover Mexican takeout tacos. They discussed the difficulties they faced going through my grandparents' belongings.
They were packrats, hoarding everything from junk mail to crusted-over bottles of holiday liquor. I remember having to maneuver around piles that scraped the ceiling, not to mention occasional avalanches that literally sealed off rooms. I bowed out of offering to clean up, blaming my allergies.
The next morning it was bright out, but only a few degrees above freezing. The remaining members of our family clambered into SUVs, and we drove in a long black convoy, snaking our way along the freeway, up into the Santa Rosa Mountains.
We rendezvoused at Diedrich's Coffee and stood outside clutching cappuccinos for warmth. Some weird inversion layer had sucked away all the smog, and on one side we could see all the way to the ocean. On the other were small orchards and roadside produce stalls. It was the way Orange County would have looked when they'd moved out there, my mom said.
Both my grandfather and grandmother were Marine Corps officers. She had been a lieutenant during World War II, and he eventually made it up to lieutenant colonel; so the service was held at a federal cemetery. It was a strange, somber, beautiful place. If you've ever been in a national park gift store, the architecture would seem familiar. Lots of dark wood beams riveted together and long expanses of pebble-stuccoed concrete. Rock walls. There were outdoor chapels, platforms with a bell or two that jutted out over little artificial lakes with a fountain or two squirting water up in the air.
We were met by two Marine Corps burial details (one each). They were immaculate, wearing dress uniforms with the traditional blue pants with the red "blood stripe" running down their side. My mom, a journalist, chatted one of them up while we waited to be escorted to our deployment zone.
You must be doing a lot of funerals out here, she said. About 60 a day, replied the Marine. My mom smirked. Because of the war? No, almost all of them are World War II vets. My very liberal mother seemed slightly flustered at this. But the college-aged Marine retained his composure perfectly.
I only remember the ceremony as being pulled through wave after wave of emotion. As the burial detachment played taps and slowly folded up an American flag in front of their urns, I felt tremendous grief. But as the Marines fired their salute for my grandfather, that sensation was purged, and I felt a tiny bit of relief. But then, when a second all-female group of Marines fired a last volley for my grandmother, I cracked and shed a tear or two.