The Professional Mourners of Arlington Cemetery

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Getty

The stranger couldn't help herself. Attending the funeral of an Iraq war veteran at Arlington National Cemetery in 2006, she leaned over and gently kissed the forehead of the fallen soldier's widow and mother.

For the woman who sensed palpable grief, it was a natural thing to do. But as an Arlington Lady, an official representative of four United States military arms dispatched to military funerals, it was a breach of policy. After the service, she was reprimanded by her supervisor. The Arlington Ladies have a very specific role. They are not there to grieve or console, but to make certain no soldier is ever buried alone.

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Hoyt Vandenberg, Chief of Staff for the United States Air Force, was driving to his office in the Pentagon in 1948 when he noticed a funeral being conducted at Virginia's Arlington National Cemetery. There was no sea of crisp uniforms or sobbing family members. Aside from the chaplain and the Honor Guard, there was no one there at all.

Vandenberg didn’t like it. Soldiers, he felt, deserved the presence of at least one civilian to bear witness to their burial. His wife, Gladys, agreed. She set about recruiting friends and wives of the enlisted to begin attending Air Force funerals, even though many of the deceased were complete strangers. They called themselves the Officers Wives Club and acted as both military representatives and as proxies for family members who might not be able to afford to travel to Arlington for services.

By 1973, the Army had formed its own version. In 1985, the Navy followed suit. And in 2006, the Coast Guard organized a group of their own. (The Marines send a Commandant representative to funerals.) Collectively, the roughly 150 women are known as the Arlington Ladies.

Participation is usually by invitation only, with the group largely made up of ex-military members or their spouses 40 years and older. If a woman is invited to join, she is first instructed to sit at funerals as an apprentice, observing the customs of the role depending on which branch of service she’s been assigned.

Naval Ladies are given a sheet that details the deceased’s biography, rank, service awards, and passing. They’re allowed to briefly introduce themselves to family prior to services; after the widow or other attendee is given the folded American flag, the Arlington representative approaches the bereaved to offer condolences and two cards—one from her, and one from the Chief of Staff. When they’re finished, they walk backwards; turning their back on the flag is prohibited.

Their duties don’t end there. If a family member is unable to attend, a Lady will write a letter offering details of the service—what was said, what the weather was like, and what she felt during the proceedings. They’ll also extend an opportunity to tend to the deceased’s grave by placing flowers on it on anniversaries or holidays.

If family members are present, the Lady is a welcome sight: although they have a dress code (no slacks or loud colors), they help ease the tension of a highly structured military funeral. If no members are present, then the Lady acts as a surrogate witness to a soldier being laid to rest.

The Ladies are expected to maintain their composure, however difficult it may be. The organization’s chair, Margaret Mensch, told The Washington Post in 2007 that she tries her best not to tear up, even when it’s a former Honor Guard escort of hers that was being buried. "You are still," she said. "You just don't cry. When I got there, I thought, 'Just concentrate on that leaf on that tree over there.' A military funeral is very dignified. Very precise. It may sound cold, but that's the beauty of it."

A mourner typically volunteers one day a month. With more than 30 funerals at Arlington a day, she might attend up to six during a single shift. Doreen Huylebroeck, whose late husband was a chief petty officer, has attended more than 500 since beginning work in 2009.

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Getting an Arlington Lady to discuss her duties on the record can be daunting. Most are averse to publicity, wary that someone might think of them as self-congratulatory. A portion of the Army's contingent, however, had to endure some recognition in 2015, when Army Chief of Staff General Ray Odierno held a reception to acknowledge the Ladies for their selfless service.

"There's no more important time than when a family is going through the incredible grief of loss … that they understand the Army is there for them and you all make that a little easier by what you do," he told the women. "By letting them know that we do care about them, so for me this is very important for us to have you here to thank you for helping our soldiers, past and present, as they continue to serve through difficult times."

The Ladies were cordial, but the session was brief. Seven funerals were still scheduled for that day.

Why Are We So Scared of Clowns?

Warner Bros.
Warner Bros.

With the recent box office-smashing success of Stephen King's It, it’s safe to say that coulrophobia (fear of clowns) isn’t a fringe phenomenon. The colorful circus performers are right up there with vampires and werewolves on the list of iconic horror villains. But unlike other movie monsters, clowns were originally meant to make kids laugh, not hide under their beds in terror. So what is it about clowns that taps into our deepest fears?

According to Yale doctoral candidate Danielle Bainbridge, the unsettling clown stereotype goes back centuries. In the inaugural episode of the PBS digital series Origin of Everything, Bainbridge explained the long history of this pervasive part of our culture.

Before clowns wore floppy shoes and threw pies at each other’s faces, early versions of the performers could be found in royal courts. The court jester wasn’t evil, but he was the only person in the kingdom who could poke fun at the monarch without fear of (literally) losing his head. The fact that fools didn’t fall within the normal social hierarchy may have contributed to the future role clowns would play as untrustworthy outsiders.

From the medieval era, clowns evolved into the harlequins of 16th-century Italian theater. Again, these weren’t bloodthirsty monsters, but they weren’t exactly kid-friendly either. The characters were often mischievous and morally bankrupt, and their strange costumes and masks only added to the creepy vibes they gave off.

Fast-forward to the 19th century, when the white-faced circus clowns we know today started gaining popularity. Unlike the jesters and harlequins that came before them, these clowns performed primarily for children and maintained a wholesome image. But as pop culture in the 1970s, '80s, and '90s showed us, that old perception we had of clowns as nefarious troublemakers never really went away. Steven King’s It, the cult classic Killer Clowns From Outer Space (1988), and that scene from Poltergeist (1982) all combined these original fears with the more modern association of clowns with children. That formula gave us one of the most frightening figures in horror media today.

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The Mongolian Princess Who Challenged Her Suitors to a Wrestling Match—and Always Won

iStock.com / SarahWouters1960
iStock.com / SarahWouters1960

In a lot of fairy tales, a disapproving father or a witch's curse stops the princess from finding Prince Charming. But things were a little different in 13th-century Mongolia. Any single lad, regardless of status or wealth, could marry the khan's daughter, Khutulun. There was just one caveat, which the princess herself decreed—you couldn't take her hand in marriage until you took her down in a wrestling match. If you lost, you had to give her a handful of prize horses.

Sounds easy, right? Nope. After all, this is the great-great-granddaughter of Genghis Khan we're talking about!

Born around 1260, Khutulun was an intimidating presence. According to The Travels of Marco Polo, the princess was "so well-made in all her limbs, and so tall and strongly built, that she might almost be taken for a giantess." She was also the picture of confidence. She had mastered archery and horsemanship in childhood and grew up to become a fearless warrior. Whenever her father, Kaidu—the leader of the Chagatai Khanate—went to battle, he usually turned to Khutulun (and not his 14 sons) for help.

Nothing scared her. Not only did Khutulun ride by her father's side into battle, she'd regularly charge headfirst into enemy lines to make "a dash at the host of the enemy, and seize some man thereout, as deftly as a hawk pounces on a bird, and carry him to her father," Marco Polo wrote. The 13th- and 14th-century historian Rashid al-Din was more direct, writing that she "often went on military campaigns, where she performed valiant deeds."

It's no surprise that Khutulun had suitors lining up and down the street asking for her hand in marriage. The princess, however, refused to marry any of them unless they managed to beat her in a wrestling match, stipulating that any loser would have to gift her anywhere between 10 to 100 horses.

Let's just put it this way: Khutulun came home with a lot of prize horses. (Some accounts say 10,000—enough to make even the emperor a little jealous.) As author Hannah Jewell writes in her book She Caused a Riot, "The Mongolian steppes were littered with the debris of shattered male egos."

On one occasion, a particularly confident suitor bet 1000 horses on a match. Khutulun's parents liked the fellow—they were itching to see their daughter get married—so they pulled the princess aside and asked her to throw the match. After carefully listening to her parents' advice, Khutulun entered the ring and, in Polo's words, "threw him right valiantly on the palace pavement." The 1000 horses became hers.

Khutulun would remain undefeated for life. According to legend, she eventually picked a husband on her own terms, settling for a man she never even wrestled. And centuries later, her story inspired François Pétis de La Croi to write the tale of Turandot, which eventually became a famed opera by the composer Giacomo Puccini. (Though the opera fudges the facts: The intrepid princess defeats her suitors with riddles, not powerslams.)

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