By Allie Jaynes BBC World Service, Taipei
Crying for a living is controversial, seen by some as the commercialisation
of grief, but mourners like Liu say their profession has a long history in
Taiwan, where according to tradition the deceased needs a big, loud send-off to
cross smoothly into the afterlife.
"When a loved one dies, you grieve so much that when it finally comes time
for the funeral, you don't have any tears left," says Liu.
"How are you going to suddenly switch your mood to show all that sorrow?"
Liu is there to help strike the right tone.
In earlier times, daughters often left home to work in other cities, and
transport was limited, she explains. If someone in the family died, they often
couldn't make it home in time for the funeral, so the family would hire what's
known as a "filial daughter" to lead the family in mourning.
Traditional Taiwanese funerals are elaborate, combining sombre mourning with
louder, up-tempo entertainment to fire up grieving spirits.
For the entertainment portion, 30-year-old Liu and her Filial Daughters Band
wear bright costumes, and perform almost-acrobatic dance numbers. They do the
splits, back-bends, and somersaults. Her brother, A Ji, plays along on
traditional stringed instruments.
Later, Liu will change into a white hood and robe, and crawl to the coffin on
her hands and knees. There, in time to her brother's organ playing, she performs
her signature wail.
Her sounds are long and drawn out, somewhere between crying and singing. At
home, she demonstrates a typical wail for me. "My dear father, your daughter
misses you so much!" she cries. "Please, please come back!"
I ask Liu how she manages to manufacture tears at will. But she insists all
her crying is real. "Every funeral you go to, you have to feel this family is
your own family, so you have to put your own feelings in it," she says. "When I
see so many people grieving, I get even sadder."
With her long eyelashes, dimples, and sing-song voice, Liu seems much younger
than her 30 years. At home, she wears an orange jogging suit and sparkly nail
polish. I'd sooner believe she was a nursery school teacher than a professional
in the grief business.
Funeral director Lin Zhenzhang, who has worked alongside Liu for years, says
that's a big part of her appeal.
"Traditionally, we think of this as a job for women a generation older," he
says. "But Jun-Lin is so young and beautiful. That contrast makes people very
curious."
Liu's grandmother and mother were both professional mourners.
As a young child, she would play outside the funeral
homes while her mother worked. At home, she mimicked her mother and older sister
as they rehearsed.
"I'd grab any object and pretend it was a microphone," she says. "Then I'd
pretend there was a coffin and crawl to it."
Both of Liu's parents died when she was young, leaving her grandmother with
three children to bring up, and a heavy burden of debt. So the grandmother
pulled Liu and her older brother into the family trade. Liu was just 11 years
old.
She had to get up before dawn each morning to rehearse, and often had to miss
school for work. When she did go to class, other children would make fun of her
job and the strange costumes she wore.
"They'd say, that's so weird, so ugly, you look so stupid!" she says. "I felt
really inferior and thought other kids didn't like me."
Performing wasn't much easier. Stigmas around death make many people look
down on mourners.
"Sometimes before we'd start the performance, the grieving family would be
very sour when they talked to us," says Liu. "But after we performed, they'd cry
and say thank you, thank you, thank you!"
That's when Liu realised the real purpose of her job. "This work can really
help people release their anger, or help them say the things they're afraid to
say out loud," she says. "For people who are afraid to cry, it helps too,
because everyone cries together."
Mentored by her grandmother, a tiny woman in wire-framed
glasses and a tight perm, Liu trained rigorously as a performer, and developed
the shrewd business skills that have lifted her family from poverty to
prosperity. Liu and her siblings each have their own house, and their company
charges up to $600 (£380) for a performance.
But it's a business in decline, says Lin Zhenzhang, as the economic downturn
and simpler modern tastes turn people away from lavish traditional funerals,
"The tradition of professional mourners is going to slowly be eliminated," he
says. "So people like Jun-Lin are going to have to find a way to reinvent their
profession, or find new sources of revenue."
This hasn't escaped Liu. That's why she has recruited some 20 female
assistants. They're young, good-looking women in black and white uniforms, who
help funeral directors with embalming and memorial services, and they've brought
Liu a lot of attention.
"There was no-one else doing this in northern Taiwan, and it ended up being
more successful than I'd thought," says Liu. "Within this industry, I know I
need to find niches that no-one else is exploring."
No matter what, Liu says, she won't ever leave the family trade.
"This is something my grandmother struggled to build up from the ground," she
says.
"I have to teach others what she taught me, and carry on her tradition."
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-21479399