The Broken, the Beaten, and the Damned
It was a fall day in October of 2006 — the air was starting to cool, but we still let the windows fly open as we rode around the winding roads of Western Maine in her 2003 Ford Focus. So many of my memories with her involve the wind whistling through the car with 94.3 WCYY, Maine’s Alternative Rock Station, blaring through the radio. From “Robin’s Zodiac Zone” to the feeling of cranking up the volume on her favorite Cake song, she loved everything about ‘CYY.
Like many other days with the music playing and the wind whipping, she had reached for her Camel №9s, a pink cigarette that she had grown to buy in false hopes that the colors would deter my siblings from trying to steal one while she wasn’t looking. She stopped mid-light to turn up the radio, she exclaimed, “Have you heard this yet?! You have to listen, this is the song I want played at my funeral.”
It was My Chemical Romance’s “Welcome to the Black Parade”.
My initial reaction was shock — I remember explaining to her, “You can’t have an emo-rock song played at your funeral. It’s supposed to be a somber song.” She shot back, as she often did, “Says who?!” We brushed onto another conversation as I thought that my 48-year-old mother’s taste in her funeral march was likely to evolve as she grew much older.
Six years later, “Welcome to the Black Parade” played at her funeral.
Each year, the anniversary of her passing and Mother’s Day come together as life’s poetic one-two punch. Fighting through the rotating cycle of grief and anger, I often go searching through archived texts, voicemails, and emails, just to hear her voice again. This process inevitably leads me to a full-on ugly cry.
This year, it was “Welcome to the Black Parade” that took me out.
I should’ve known in 2006 that her desire to have that song played at her funeral wasn’t because she liked the drum solo (though she did) or because she liked the idea of bucking the traditional style (which she also did), she wanted us to revisit that song and it’s message when we needed to hear from her. When we needed a reminder of the path ahead.
The lyrics are laced with Mom’s trademark life lessons:
- Our imperfections make us beautiful.
I won′t explain or say I’m sorry
I′m unashamed, I’m gonna show my scars
Give a cheer for all the broken
Listen here, because it’s who we are
2. It’s human to be scared, but never fear what people think.
On and on,
we carry through the fears
Disappointed faces of your peers
Take a look at me, ’cause I could not care at all
3. We will all be OK, and that’s all we can ask for.
And when you’re gone,
we want you all to know
We′ll carry on, we′ll carry on
And though you’re dead and gone, believe me
Your memory will carry on
4. We should all fight for the broken, the beaten, and the damned. But more than anything, if you knew Marjorie McCollister, you knew a steadfast friend of, advocate for, and often mother to, the broken, the beaten, and the damned.
And in that way, the opening verse of this odd-soundtrack she’s chosen as the one we will remember her by is most fitting.
When I was a young boy
My father took me into the city
To see a marching band
He said, “Son, when you grow up
Would you be the savior of the broken
The beaten and the damned?”
As one who often feels broken, beaten, and even damned, I miss you like hell Mom. You were the best of the best, the one we never deserved. Today I am going to go visit you for the first time since we first laid you to rest nine years ago.
It’s been a journey but I’m unashamed to show my scars. Your kids are more than alright, they are all thriving in ways I wish you knew.
With love, we’ll carry on.
