Dear SpoiledPrincess:
First, please accept my sympathy regarding the loss in your family.
Second, I tend to side with you regarding wearing black at funerals, especially if it's a long formal affair where one must endure a eulogy in a church or synagogue then be part of a cortege to a cemetery and witness the internment. And if you are asked to be a pall bearer and don’t own a black suit, politely decline the family’s request and suggest someone else as an alternate. Trust me, they’ll appreciate it as well as understand.
But consider the following:
Funeral 1: When my outrageously wonderful best friend died at 47, his evangelical christian family – his “loved ones” who had angrily disowned him in his teens for being gay -- agreed to pay for his cremation and reimburse me for any "expenses" involved. This included shipping his ashes 2,000 miles back to their home in Boston. They couldn’t be bothered with attending their only son’s funeral, which as it turned out was for the best.
I consulted with the only funeral home in Salt Lake City at that time willing to handle the remains of people who died of AIDS-related complications. The funeral director asked if I wanted to have a four-hour viewing. It was included with the cremation. So, I decided why the Hell not? Within 24-hours the news spread via word of mouth and just about everyone who knew my friend showed up at the funeral home to have one last peek. His shriveled remains were on display from 2:00 to 6:00 PM contained inside the minimum legal requirements for a coffin: a long reinforced cardboard box with a fuzzy gold floral print surface. He was still covered in a sheet from the morgue. Friends (and some enemies) arrived dressed in everything and anything. Attire included swim suits, pajamas, sweat pants, Realtors in gold blazers, and a few suits, jackets, “Power Pant Suits” and subdued dark blouses with skirts and sensible shoes. Most mourners brought floral bouquets "borrowed" from strangers’ gardens while in transit from work or home. My friend had worked as a sommelier for 25 years. Thus, many bottles of tequila and expensive wines appeared out of nowhere and were discretely passed among the bereaved. Within the first 30 minutes his viewing turned into a wake. Seeing that he was wrapped in only a sheet, two of his former coworkers left and quickly returned with an ancient 50’s era organza prom dress. They tucked it over and around him inside the cheap paper box. The frock was appropriately colored faded lavender. The dress’s unruly tulle petticoats billowed out and over the box adding a sense of even more ludicrous elegance. Someone clad his feet with tacky gold lamé flip-lops. A Magic 8-Ball was placed on his chest. During those four hours he became a work-in-progress as friends decorated him with old costume jewelry, a tiara, personal photos, (some porn), rose petals and blossoms. For the last hour of his final public appearance he wore a pair of sunglasses. Promptly at 6:00 PM eight burly drag queens dressed all in black, replete with black gloves, veiled hats and stiletto patent leather heels magically showed up and served as pall bearers, marching him off to the crematorium’s waiting van. It was a sad, yet wonderful afternoon during which more than 400 people, mostly dressed in jeans and T-shirts, paid their respect.
Funeral 2: In contrast, when my father died at 94, everyone, including the funeral director, grumbled and complained about my father's request to have a grave-side service. Fortunately, it was a beautiful, sunny and warm October day. I used the occasion as an excuse to buy myself a new tailor-made black suit. What’s left of my extended family (distant aunts, uncles, nieces and cousins of varying degrees) as well as my parent’s few living friends and neighbors were smart enough wear black. I purchased 8 identical black silk ties for the pall bearers (Windsor knots) and red carnations for their lapels.
My father was an old-fashioned farmer who hated suits and ties and refused to wear them. He did not own a suit. When he was still alive he frequently made me promise that he would not be buried “dressed in a god damn monkey suit!” His words, not mine. So, when mourners wobbled and creaked past his open grave-side casket and found him dressed in a new Sears work shirt, new crisp striped overalls, and his favorite John Deer cap (to use one of my dad’s favorite expressions) “The shit hit the fan!” Nary a guest passed by without muttering something negative or letting out an audible gasp.
My father had grown up in Ewetaw surrounded by mormon culture. Although his grand children and great grand children are devout followers of that particular belief system, I can assure you that my dad NEVER attended mormon church services. I’d taken great care to prepare a short, respectful grave side service as he had requested with a minute of silence (instead of prayer). I hired two sopranos from the Ewetaw Opera Company to belt out an abbreviated A capella version of the soothing duet Viens, Mallika ... Dôme épais, le jasmin, from Léo Deliebes’ Lakmé. The duet has nothing to do with funerals, god, heaven, the hallowed suffering of mormon pioneers or tuna casserole, but it’s beautiful and serene music. It was also one of my dirt farmer father’s favorite tunes on his Greatest Opera Hits CD which he never seemed to remove from the CD player in his tricked out Dodge Ram 2500 SLT Deisel 4 x 4 truck. His mourners, however, would have preferred a couple of comely octogenarian vibratos crackle their voices through something from the mormon hym book.
As for dressing for the occasion, the mormon bishop (lay clergyman) from what would have been my father’s “ward” (neighborhood parish) showed up unannounced wearing khaki Dockers, cowboy boots, short-sleeved shirt with clip-on tie, and wielding his bible and book or mormon. He was just biting at the bit to trump the occasion of my father’s death with a few kind words from “The Church.” Although I was caught off guard, I deftly pulled him out of sight and forced him to leave by telling him “I’m sorry, sir, but you are not dressed appropriately.”
So, yeah, be respectful and dress for the occaion. And if possible, respect the deceased’s wishes. Just because they are dead does not mean we can ignore them an rewrite their life to suit the cut of what the living considers to be fashionable. If my dad had been a surfer dude who spent his life hanging-ten from Huntington Beach to Sandy Eggo, I would have thrown him an ocean-side kegger where guests would have been required to romp barefoot or relax in their Brazlian-made Habanas – shirts and bikini tops optional. In my uppity opininion, that’s appropriate behavior.